


The Winchester Hunting Journal

by jackalh0wl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (~10k each), Angelic Cas (but not an angel), Bisexual Dean Winchester, Case Fic, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, Leader Sam Winchester, M/M, Multi, NOT written in first person, Post-Season/Series 15, Relevant warnings on each chapter, Repressed Dean Winchester, Sam and Eileen lead a hunting network, Self-Acceptance, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, kind of, long chapters, small time skip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:22:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28436817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackalh0wl/pseuds/jackalh0wl
Summary: "Is this your diary?" Claire asks, tilting it so see 'WINCHESTER' scored down the spine. It's thick with newspaper and notes, not falling apart but close, the brass clasp barely containing the contents."It's a journal, smartass, and it's got creatures you've never even heard of lurking in its' pages."-Starts two months after 15x19, where Cas and Eileen have already returned. This story focuses on Dean, Cas, Sam and Eileen as the main characters, building on their arcs/relationships with each other and the wider hunting world.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 11
Kudos: 12





	1. all within my hands

**THREE YEARS LATER**

"We've got one more surprise for you." Dean drums on the table, excited murmurings building in the bunker kitchen between family and friends. 

"This wasn't enough?" Claire laughs, pointing her drink around at the unwrapped presents and cake claiming she was having a, _HAPPY 26th!_

"Never." He leans down to smack her forehead with a kiss but groans about his shoulder like an old man. It doesn't get any sympathy from her, knowing it had long healed from the bullet, but Cas crosses the crowded room to lay a hand on him. 

"Aw, scared to lose me?" Dean mocks, moving to tangle their ringed fingers. 

"Yes, you're irreplaceable." Cas confirms wearily, guiding them into the hallway and out of sight for her 'surprise'. She really was having a happy twenty-sixth, her shoulder beaten blue by birthday beats from everyone who could make it. Except Jack, who had given her a very sweet hug, and Kaia, who had given her twenty-six kisses. Well, more than that, but they'd lost count. She tucks the party-hat string behind her sleeping girlfriends' ear so it doesn't dig in, thinking of rings and arches. 

Sam peers into the kitchen to beckon her out, as if nobody else could see him. Seriously, those kids of his were making him live by their rules. She dodges past her pleasantly buzzed friends, sneaking out for her - 

"Surprise!" 

It's a four person cheer that has her glancing around the maproom, not seeing anything but them and the bunker. 

_Am I missing something?_ She asks Eileen, who laughs and unloops her arms around her giant of a husband. 

_Look closer!_ She prompts and decides to give no more hints, hands back around Sam. That just left - 

"No way." They were giving her the bunker? 

A flash of silver arcs through the air, and she catches it with a flick of her hand. She stares at the keys in awe - it was something they'd talked about in passing, the perfect place to run operations from, though she never really thought it could happen. She'd been stepping up as Sams' second in command since the incident, but being told she was great was nowhere near as profound as the proof. 

"You're doing a lot more of the heavy lifting than I am - it's time." Sam says, swooping down to hug her, handing over the reigns of his legendary network. 

"Thank you." She whispers, shell-shocked.

"And," Dean taps her shoulder. "You might be needing this." 

In his outstretched hand, is a leather journal emblazoned with the Men of Letters mark, but the stitched corner claims its' owner to be _'D.W.'_

"Is this your diary?" Claire asks, tilting it to see _'WINCHESTER'_ scored down the spine. It's thick with newspaper and notes, not falling apart but close, the brass clasp barely containing the contents. 

"It's a journal, smartass, and it's got creatures you've never even _heard_ of lurking in it's pages." Smug as anything, he folds his arms. "Yeah, it used to be mine - until Sam started scrawling in it and then Cas, so it's a gift from all of us." 

With sudden concern, Cas leans over to Dean, whispering in a way he's never mastered, "Did you take that page out?" They share a slow look of panic, whipping their heads to the journal now nestled safely in her grasp. 

"It's rude to take back gifts." She grins, verging on a cackle as her thunderous father curses the other for teaching her manners. She plays keep-away with it all the way back to the kitchen, until Eileen trips her and it devolves into a wrestling match. 

*

She only remembers it and the tempting stories waiting inside, when she sprawls out next to Kaia in bed. Flicking on the bedside lamp, responding to muttered complaints that this was revenge for late night painting sessions, she unbuckles the clasp. 

There's no place to start, but the beginning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! I hope you're ready for a ride :)
> 
> this shot of serotonins' got some hints about what's in store! from here on out the chapters get long (~10k each kind of long) and can be read as stand alone cases - they all have relevant trigger warnings at the beginning because I don't want to play with anyone's mental health
> 
> dean does smoke and drink in this fic, as unhealthy coping mechanisms.
> 
> these stories will focus on dean, sam, cas and eileen as the main characters and build on their relationships/arcs. for me, this story is closure on certain things, which may not be the closure you're looking for! i respect that :) 
> 
> +: as i'm hesitant to post this, id really love to ask that if you enjoy any part of these stories (or have feedback!) to please comment, it's a writers gold and we treasure them <33


	2. self-portrait

**\- FRACTURE FALLS -**

_As another hiker has gone missing, we would like to remind residents of our town to keep watch of their neighbours - and to be careful on those trails! The fog season has started again, which as we all know can be a challenge…_

_B. Tarn_

* * *

Black bitumen flies under the Impalas' wheels, weaving past vehicles down a heaving highway, travelling towards a grey hazy horizon. Paper rustles as Sam thumbs through news cuttings lodged in lore books, colliding chimes of beer bottles in their cooler and weapons thudding in their trunk. 

"I'm gonna stop soon." Dean announces to a grunted agreement, pulling into the outer lane and preparing to turn off into a pit stop. Sams' phone breaks the lull of noise, sharp and soon quelled by him accepting the call. 

_Eileen!_ He signs, smoothing down his hair and Dean chuckles at how hastily the phone sets up on the dash. Leaning over, he gives his glimpse of her a grin. Brown hair tied back, she tugs a stifling shirt collar, outlined by an orange sun-glow flooding through the rolled down window. 

"Hey, how's my favorite hunter doing?" Sam pushes his head but he doesn't straighten until he gets a tinny laugh from Eileens' end - can't let her go forgetting who the better brother is. 

_"Was that Dean?"_ Another voice asks, roiling his heart and sending his speech to a separate stratosphere, paralleling Baby right inside two white lines. 

_"Your 'favorite hunter' just became mine as well. Thanks, Cas."_ Eileen enthuses, taking a steaming coffee from the seat beside her. _"Mhm."_ She smacks her lips, giving him an approving look. 

Before getting caught up in conversation, he hits Sams' arm and gestures if he wants anything. With a distracted _"Hm? No, no, I'm good."_ he hops out into the cold lashings of air, loping inside with a nod to the cashier, coasting to the urinals. 

The trucker beside him gives his arms a once over, red flannel rolled to the elbows. "Nice tats." He hears and wishes there was warding that stopped dudes chatting him up with their dicks out. 

He'd gotten more protection sigils after everything with Chuck went down, just in case, so now his scarred arms were hilly hues of blue-green. Turns out one of Sams' network used to ink up hunters all the time and didn't mind the freebie for Dean. 

Well, he was a bunker-mooch, but given his artwork briefly stunned Cas breathless, he didn't even give the guy a hard time when he discovered dirty boots defiling his kitchen table. 

"Uh." Dean shifts and zips up. "Thanks, I guess."

"Matt says there's a mist coming in heavy on the roads. Might want to switch your headlights on early." He drawls as Dean scrubs soapy hands in the sink, wondering why this guy is warning him - until he glimpses in the grimy reflection, blue jeans and red flannel. 

Dude thinks he's a trucker. Dean shifts his head, amused. What he wouldn't give to drive coast to coast, now that he supposedly could. 

They nod in what must be a trucker farewell before Dean's outside, wiping wet palms on his jeans. Over the approaching pine trees, a grey haze had spread itself thin like a fog machine gearing up. They should step on it if they wanted to get set up in town tonight. 

He strides past Sams' shotgun side, spotting a dark head of hair and low rumbled tone. Reaching through the window, he wrestles the phone away from a protesting Sam. 

"No, Dean, we were talking!" 

"And now, you're not." Dean grunts, pinching at the weak flesh on his brother's wrist to win the phone. Leaving him to huff into his hair, he goes behind the truck stop to light up a smoke. 

"Dean." Reproachful, but amused, just the way he likes Cas to sound. Though he could do without the crinkle cut frown of disappointment as he catches the red cigarette cinders. 

"I'm cutting down." He says before any shit can start. 

"It'll damage your heart." Cas warns anyway. 

He blows out a tentative curl of smoke towards the screen. "Not as bad as you do."

Cas rolls his eyes skyward but smiles all the same and after glancing around, he does too. A tilted head and blue gaze consider him. "Worried about the hunt?" 

His lips twitch, wondering if Cas had a fancy human algorithm in his head to select a response. He sees him lighting up, knows stress spurs on smoking and in turn thinks his wigged out Winchester would talk about it. 

Maybe, he just knows Dean. 

"A little." He admits, flicking ash away. "I want to believe it's all over, being a soldier in that tools' toybox." His nose twitches on the exhale of smoke, losing Cas briefly as it blows over the screen. "I want this hunt to prove that."

Cas nods understandingly, seemingly in a similar situation and suddenly he wishes states weren't separating them, so they could share the sunset settling on his angels' features. His fingers flick aggressively at the ash, seeing his smile tilt into something softer. 

"I wish I was there, too."

Dean startles, catching sight of his own stupified face before remembering, right, yeah. Cas can still feel that longing shit like a prayer. 

"Don't be a smug dick about it, alright." He grumbles, blowing smoke to block himself from view. It's a whole different beast, knowing his wayward wish that Cas loved him was real. That he tore a tearful confession out of them both, only to ditch him at the altar, the dramatic idiot. 

Point is they both know, so, they don't need to say it. 

Still, the urge throttles through him as archaic-ocean eyes sink into whatever stupidly sentimental seismic-waves he picks up from Dean. 

"No pulling those eyes on the other hunters." He clears the warmth from his throat, scratching the hinge of his jaw. "We don't need more strays at the bunker."

"They're very smart strays." Cas defends as someone taps his shoulder, he nods, using one hand to respond. He doesn't know what's being said but senses it's time to go - the mist rolling heavy and low, smoke dwindling to its' last few breaths, bolstered by the blaring horn of the Impala where Sam leans on it, irritated.

Cas turns back to him and they halt. After what happened, neither of them are fond of farewells anymore. 

"Take care, Dean." Drowning in the soft warning, one he'd enforce even states away, he thumbs over Cas' cheek and excuses it as flecks of ash. 

"See you soon." It's a promise. 

They stay in the moment before he sums the courage to cut the call. "Yeah, yeah." He hangs up, crushing the stub of smoke under his boot, hands chilly and clenching as he heads back to Baby. 

* * *

Glimpses through the mist reveal the small town of _Fracture Falls, Washington_ to be patchwork pieces of weathered wood houses, hitched along hiking trails either side of a climbing colossal waterfall. 

The thunderous feat of nature pelts down precarious rockside, plunging into a vast lake surrounded by viridian pines, swaying boats upon the surface. Beneath their tires, twigs and leaves crunch consistently, a welcoming chorus as they roll up to their rental house. 

"It's not that bad." Sam shouts, stepping out of the car, his voice either drowned by the crashing waterfall or ignored in his brothers' misery. Mud slips under their boots and when he tilts his head to see the source, stray droplets splatter in his hair and face, trickling down from pine branches. 

White chips off the creaking door as Dean shoulders inside, immediately heading for the radiators. He takes in their single storey, placing his canvas on one of the double beds wedged into the timber room. It's gloomy - an arched window at the front, thin panes of glass squashed into the two-tile wide kitchen, where cabinet doors drowsily yawn. 

"Not that bad?" Dean doubts, shoving a jumper into his arms as he steadies a lopsided seat. "Did you see those roads? No, you didn't, because it's like _The Mist_ out there." He cracks his beer, flicking open their fake identity box as Sam takes the stable chair opposite. 

"What can we even use out of these? Hiking around in suits would look stupid." Dean dismisses the idea, giving up on the plastic cards inside. He hums in faint agreement, knowing his brother took Cas suit-shopping recently. He trusts either to be given obvious news, or Dean to reveal his complete obliviousness to his ring finger constantly being sized up. 

Sam pulls the jumper over his head, before spreading his case notes across the table. "What we know, is that three people of completely different ages, incomes and backgrounds vanished." 

He taps the first name noted as missing, an old lady with no remaining relatives to question her disappearance - only the newspaper boy noticed unread papers stacking up. "Most of them either lived alone, or were relatively new in town. Except this third guy."

Dean drinks, looking at the black-white headshots. "What's his deal?" 

"Well, whoever wrote the article on him disappearing, implied he ran away because of debt." Sam unfolds a slip of paper. "But get this - dude was married. His partner never mentioned in the article and never appeared in town after it was written. Both just, gone."

Leaning over the papers now, his brother nods. "So, either they bolted without a trace, or something grabbed them before they could."

"That's why," Sam searches in the box, triumphantly folding out two laminated cards. "We should go look at their house."

Deans' eyebrows raise incredulously. "House repairs. That's what you came up with?" 

"I mean." Sam sits silently, letting the dripping creaking surroundings speak for him. They watch a splatter land directly on their map of the town, darkening the lake until it bores a hole through to the table. 

*

Sneaking into the victims house is incredibly easy in the mist, covering their movements as they jam open a window and unlock the front door. Similar to their own lodgings, it's a single storey that feels more spacious with only one bed in the room. 

Clothes caught in the washing machine, dirty dishes in the sink and an overflowing bucket of rain under a gap in the roof - left in status, as if the home had been plucked clean of its' occupants. 

"It really is like _The Mist._ " Dean mutters in wonder, and it makes him squint. 

It was one of the last horror films they'd watched. He recalls Eileen laughing over the terrible decisions and that Dean was silent towards the end, his hand curling into Cas'. More than anything, he remembers the ridiculous monsters. 

"Dude, tentacles aren't going to start flying out at us." He pitches dryly and his brother riles up defensively. 

"That is _not_ what-" 

"Excuse me, _excuse me_ , what are you doing in Marks' cabin?" An inquiring voice calls to them from outside. A woman with warm tan skin, wrapped in fewer layers than them but comfortable with the cold, waits for an answer. The mist moves black hair across her curious brown eyes. 

Dean slaps his shoulder, indicating he would handle this as Sam continued investigating. But, despite a triple check for symbols or hexbags, there's nothing besides a stack of receipts from a company called _Tarn Repairs_ and phone bills. 

He checks his own phone, but the bar for signal remains disappointingly low. There's the text he managed to get earlier, infuriating Dean by his ability to hold his cell that bit higher in the sky. 

-

**EILEEN**

5hr ago

_sorry, dean took my phone for ages - and don't worry about making a good impression, you're going to floor them_

2hr ago

_i did floor them! as in i thought one was the monster and wrestled him to the ground. we're both embarrassed for different reasons but, cas is winning them over. good luck on your hunt, we miss you :) xx_

-

He smiles at the supportive words, the concept of being missed. With some luck, this hunt wouldn't take too long. He steps outside, tucking his phone away as he reaches out an introductory hand to - 

"Aldana Rivera." She introduces, gloved grip firm as they shake. 

He fumbles for the fake name he'd been introduced as in his absence. "Sam Reeds." His brother must be proud of that one. 

"So, you're fixing houses around town?" Aldana asks, hands tucked casually in her coat pockets. 

"Should be - this is our first stop," Sam screws his face up in confusion. "But, it looks like the guys inside haven't moved out yet."

Aldanas' eyes slide past them, to the open door. "Mark lived here for years… there were rumors he was tight on money, but nothing serious enough for him to leave. You didn't see him?" Where there should be hope in her tone, it held more curiosity and her head drops. "We're worried for him."

But not worried for the partner who also disappeared? Sam flicks a look over to Dean, who nods in agreement. 

"Sorry," Dean smiles apologetically, detaching themselves from this busybody. "We haven't seen anyone."

* * *

"Damn it." Dean mutters, closing the cell claiming no signal. 

A few days in, this town was getting to him. Standing for an evening smoke on their mossy porch, pointlessly trying to see anything beyond the fragile barrier of white wood. He could be staring straight at Sasquatch and not know it. He exhales, unable to discern smoke from fog.

The case was more complex than they first thought. The other victims' houses had been much the same, repair and phone bills. The locals peering past thin curtains, glimpses of ghostly lives that didn't want to get involved. 

A shell of a case, emptiness waiting for them to fill in the blanks and he was irritated Cas was missing out on it. He kept turning to the space over his shoulder, like he did in that month before Cas returned, only this time he _could_ be here - and wasn't. 

He wasn't wasting his time with waterfall factoids, from the perspective of a being who had seen the first fall of rain. He wasn't hushing his complaints about constantly scrubbing mud off their clothes and gear. He wasn't _here_ , no, instead he's in some state charming the shit out of hunters he'd never met, who wouldn't think twice about making an angel a prized possession. 

Listening to the deepest caverns inside himself, maybe he was missing him. 

"What happened?" Sam asks, swinging a white bag of store food as he steps up the porch. "You're smiling."

He hadn't even noticed his brother arrive. "Nothing. Still no signal." Taking the bag, he heads inside and starts stirring up their two tin meal as Sam settles, holding a scrawled address. "Get lucky?" 

"Yeah. The clerk at the store wants us to fix his fathers' pipes." And come on, that's hilarious. "Dude, that's disgusting. Anyway, I asked about the disappearances and he said not to worry, that it's been happening for years."

Dean stops stirring. "Years? And nobody reported anything?" 

Sam shakes his head. "In the foggy months, people come to town and disappear. No deep ties to keep them, so they're written off as runaways."

The low visibility suddenly raises in threat, threading through the trees beyond the thin panel windows in the kitchen. "It's the fog?" 

"Something like that." Sam says, looking over his shoulder to the bleakness surrounding them on all sides. 

* * *

Sam shakes the newspaper out, alarmed by the title. "Another one." He informs his brother, ditching the paper on the table strewn with research. It's been a week without any clear link between victims, and the local lore books were less than helpful. "It's picking up pace."

No response. He looks at the journal where they'd been recording case notes and his lips pinch in irritation. "How's the research going?" 

"Fine." Dean says, pen looping over the page. 

He huffs at the clear lie. "All you've done is doodle dogbones and circles." Or they could be dicks and halos, the drawing's so crude he can't tell. 

"Yeah, well." Without a good excuse, his brother pushes back from the table, disturbing all their findings and strolls out. He wants to shout that it's not safe but honestly, he has no proof to support that. Shaking his head, he leafs through their journal as a lighter clicks outside. The smell of smoke drifts in and combined with the mist, he wonders when he'll get a gulp of pure air again. 

_Pure._

The phrase pulses in his mind, turning his thoughts to a case. A thin thread to follow but he clings to it, running low on patience and time. 

-

**VINDICO**

_A creature of revenge and retribution. Summoned for feats of vengeance through pure fire. Not much is known about what happens to its victims except it finds them through smoke…_

-

Close but no cigar. He can hear his brother struggling with his lighter, so a fire related monster doesn't seem likely. He sighs over the article boasting another loss. 

"Aren't you tired of dead ends?"

  
  


*

"Nothing!" Dean slams the driver-side door in frustration. "Just like the rest of them. Nothing moved, just newspapers and bills piling up." He turns over the engine, backing out of yet another house stopped in motion. "Whoever this Wade Tarn is must be rolling in cash."

"Think he's a lead?" Sam asks curiously beside him, but he hasn't been able to make heads or tails of this case. 

No clues, no bodies. The _local_ store patrons - a hike and a half away from earning that title - wouldn't speak more than necessary to Dean, his tattoos visible when he'd carried a beer six-pack. Still, they lurked on porches and disappeared inside if he turned their way. 

Glancing up into the mirror, his whole body singles down into one alert line, staring into a pitiless pair of milky white eyes in a warped face. Skin, sickly pale and bitten through with harsh red crescents, all types of nasty internal shit streaming out of the severe cuts. 

He flicks around - nothing in the seat behind them, no ghostly chill. 

Are they under attack? Physically he feels fine, no bleeding eye sockets or sudden heart pains. He tightens his grip on the wheel, and looks again.

Haunting eyes stare back, filling the entire frame of the mirror. 

"Sam." Dean draws his attention gently with his full name. "It's in the car."

Slowly, his brother slides his phone away as any movement would draw attention. His head turns and he jolts - the wing mirrors had the same staring white pits of eyes. "How did it find us?" 

It caught them unprepared, barely able to see in the fog, alone and without contact. He steps harder on the gas, racing them home or even just a patch of clear air. The staring never stops. "Why hasn't it attacked yet?" 

Sam reaches up towards the mirror - the monsters' eyes snap to his hand, tracking where it couldn't reach outside of the thin metal frame. "There's something scratched on the back of this."

" _What?_ " His hand shoots up to feel what are definitely scratches. Oh, he is going to feel _nothing_ putting that son of a bitch in the ground. His fingertips catch on the lines, spanning the length of the mirror. 

_REEDS_

"Someone put a hit out on us." He realises. "Fake us, anyway." From the corner of his eye, he sees Sam lean almost nose to nose with the thing, condensation on the inside of the mirror where the creature pants. 

"I don't think it can hurt us, not without our real names." Sam sits back as the car turns another corner, the eerie stare shuddering in frustration. He points out a split in the road, leading down towards the towns' library. "If anyone hired a monster, then it's someone living here. We've got to find out who, before they find the real us."

"They might wish they hadn't." Dean mutters, flooring it through the mist. 

*

It wasn't just in the car. 

Every reflective surface, windows, glasses, metal pipes, the same stare. Empty of anything but hunger, frustration. It stalked their movements, waiting behind a thin barrier to attack, withheld only by sheer luck that they'd used fake identities. 

They must be the hottest thing on the menu, because it will not look away. People at the library pass by without even a shiver at the thing staring straight at them. Any of these same people, could be the one who didn't like the Winchesters sniffing around, who wanted them dead. 

This town was a tough crowd to please. 

Seems like Wade Tarn agreed. "Alright, listen to this." He smacks the fuzzing computer to stop the static. " _Tarn Repairs_ used to be _Tarn Electrics_ \- big company in boring cities. Recession hits and the whole company takes a dive, downsizing and downsizing until it's a one man brand." 

"Lot of cuts, lots of enemies." Sam muses but he holds him off that thought path. 

"Not quite. He moved here with his wife, twenty years ago. That's a long time to sit and stew about all the people who could've helped him." He thumbs his ring, moving on. "But all his competitors and old colleagues are doing fine - _he_ disappeared five months ago. Never reported missing."

"When these disappearances started up again." Sam shifts through his notes. "That was the end of the first fog. Maybe this thing came back for seconds."

Their eyes slide in sync to the butchered bloodied face staring out at them through a gleaming metal bar. 

"Vanished but no reports, that's what's been bugging me about this case." Sam stops, holding the newspaper still in recognition. "Get this - B. Tarn wrote all these articles on the disappearances."

That doesn't make sense. "Bernadette Tarn, his wife? Why wouldn't she report her own husband missing?" He asks, moving out of the way as Sam scrabbles his fingers over the keyboard to find her address. 

"Because, she knows where he is."

*

Wisps of white mist curl off the lake, cold bursts sending shivers across the surface and down their spines. Supported by stilts near the dark body of water is the Tarn house, held over marshy ground that sinks their steps as they march forward. 

"No lights on." Dean notes, beating his fist on the door. He feels a bit guilty when a wide-eyed greying woman opens up, her bony fingers curling cautiously. "Hey there, we're Reeds Repairs."

Either she's never heard of them or she's superb at covering up an assassination attempt, shaking her head with an unsure smile. "I didn't phone for any services." Her hand hesitates, pulling the door open. "Though, I could use some help."

Leading them inside across a muddy doormat, the wood creaks under their weight and moonlight glimpses through slatted walls. Anything that once made this place a home, was faded. Old towels in the kitchen, crackled vinyl chairs and string-bundled newspapers beside a typewriter. He scans a few lines of the paper loaded in, fingers pressing one of the tempting keys - it snaps down, startling in the silence. "Please, don't touch that." Bernadette Tarn asks. 

"Sorry." He offers, about to turn away when he catches sight of tomorrow's headline. 

-

**FRACTURE FALLS**

_We are sad to announce that two recent residents have gone missing, Dean and Sam Reeds. They may not have been here long, but their presence was felt…_

-

"I need some help changing the bulbs." Bernadette continues, pointing up to the jagged glass remains surrounding a wire in the ceiling. "They burst a couple of nights ago." She shows her palms, small red welts where she'd grabbed the broken glass. "I have some spares down in the cellar - the doors' just to the side of the house."

Sam looks at him expectantly and, no way is he leaving. This womans' got their names typed up, ready to bundle their death away as another disappearance. His brothers' eyebrows bounce, making his jaw set. They needed to find more, and this was a chance to poke around. Fine. 

He forces a smile. "I'll go and grab them."

*

The wind had picked up, catching on the edge of the cellar door and swinging it, howling across the lake and urging him down the stairs - slats of wood, covered in grime and dirt. He holds on to the frame when the wind surges, nearly careening him down into darkness. He harshly chuckles, tipping his head to the side before stepping down with moonlight as his only guide. Moss slicks the handrail and he recoils, wiping it away on his jacket. As his foot lands deep in mud, two things happen. 

The sliver of moonlight guiding him splinters and dies, the door swinging shut behind him, and a slow moan of pain echoes inside the pitch black basement. 

He races back up the stairs, straining against the door with his shoulder. "Sam! _Sammy_!" He shouts through the wood but it buffets with the heavy pressure of wind, bearing down. It rears him back, daggers of cold air slicing his face. 

Another wounded moan makes him turn.

Someone was down here. 

Falling dust catches in the flashlight beam as it stutters on. Straining against the dark, he pieces together his surroundings - tall shelves stacked to the dripping ceiling, the log lined walls weeping with groundwater. There's a dragged trench through the mud on the floor - the width of a body. 

Alright, nothing freaky going on. He convinces himself, letting go of the mossy handrail and stepping off the last step into the sinking mud. It's impossible not to make noise, but he tries, following the trail carefully around the shelves. 

The moaning had petered off into a sad, self soothing mumble. 

" _Nada cambiará… en sus caras veo el temor…_ " 

Pieces of a melody, pitch changing with a heaving human chest. He moves quicker through the mud, torch flicking to the end of the trail and he stares in disbelief. 

Mirrors, so many mirrors. 

Towering and elegant, gilded frames of gold far fancier than should be in this muddy grave - small and functional, squat with box frames, ovals and tall in various stages of accumulating dirt. Walking past them like a mirror maze, he passes one with a familiar name scratched on the wooden back - _REEDS_. 

So, this one was meant for them. 

He swings his light down over the mirror and that's when he notices, the beam only catches on frames and smudges. None of the mirrors have reflections. Looking closer, some of these streaks were intense, peach-coloured blurs, outlines of hair and features lost in distortion. He runs a hand over scratches in the wood, matching older names of the vanished - their smudges like fingerprints, faint and flickering, a fading pulse. 

He watches one struggle, slowing, before disappearing - the reflection returning to the mirror. 

Were the vanished _inside_ the mirrors? 

Movement in the corner of the reflection spins him around. Shining light on a still body, blood dried and caked onto her forehead, disorientated brown eyes squinting against him. Shit. 

"Aldana?" He calls her name gently, then again more firmly when she moans in distress. Her lower half trapped under a fallen shelf, hands limp over the metal as if she'd forgotten how to push. "Aldana, hey, can you hear me?" Consistently he draws her attention, hefting up the heavy shelf with a grunt. She sucks in air once the weight is gone and he shoves it away, clattering into some mirrors. Crouching by her side, he winces at the blood and bruising, tearing off a strip of his sleeve to wrap around the worst wounds. 

The sudden sensations shock her focus to him. " _Quién…_ " 

"Hey, don't try to get up, that shelf was rough on your ribs." Dean advises, tying the thigh tourniquet. Her hands weakly push his away in confusion, curling into herself. Once the bandage is done, he backs off and gives her some breathing room. Not that there's much down here. 

He starts a steady stream of speech, as she catches her breath. "How in the hell did you end up under a shelf in a basement? I got the sense you were nosing around the disappearances, but this extreme is something new." 

Aldana blinks, somewhere far away as she speaks with a sleepy slur. "One… my sister."

"Your sister went missing?" Dean scans the torch over the mirrors through the mist again, but she shakes her head, hair sticking in the mud. 

"Her husband." Aldana croaks, heavy hands tentatively touching around her wounds. "Names… in a notepad. I thought finding one would help her." She's not making much sense, but she is speaking without coughing blood and that's good enough for him. 

"We're gonna get out of here and patch you up, okay?" He asks, carefully excavating her from the muddy pit, mindful of those bruised ribs. "How did you get so bloody?" 

Aldana is quiet, breathing heavily where she leans against his side, the unsteady air crystallizing with cold. He tenses, swinging the torch through the mist on mirrors, only seeing his own reflection - 

Sanguineous wounds, thick deep carvings into milky flesh that staggered the figure, supporting whatever organs remained inside itself precariously. Its' sightless eyes stare right at them from the mirror, the frame viciously slashed with _TARN_. 

It steps out of the mirror and into the mist. 

*

It moves, _fast_. 

Instantly its' putrid mouth closes around Deans' forearm, incisors sharp and piercing through his skin. Pain lances up, it's decaying fingertips clinging on - instinctively he shoves with his elbow, going for the gut, pulling his arm away from its' jaws. 

The bite slackens but fighting back seems to excite it, scrabbling for another attack as Dean heaves away from the sinking mud. 

Aldanas' weight stops him from properly fighting this thing, and his priority right now is getting her safe. If they can get to the door - the creature lunges for his neck and he manages to jam his shoulder up in time, grunting when it chomps down. 

Metal lingers on his tongue like lightning, a furious blinding blue-white crackling around the warding tattoo on his shoulder, it's lines broken by the bite. Whatever was in the sigil makes the creature rear back, mouth misting around the edges, sloughing skin fragments to the floor. 

Not missing this chance to run, he jostles Aldana and sprints through the shelves. Her headwound must be clearing up because she gets her feet under herself, struggling not to slip as they race past piles of useless garbage - he skids a little, his flashlight catching on a long beam of metal, fingers fumbling to drag it along with them. Who thought he'd be so glad to see a crowbar, he could almost kiss it. There's no time though as they bump against the steps, Dean pushing at Aldanas' arms to get her ahead and closer to the door. 

"Go, go, go, get it open for us while I hold o- _agh_!" As he'd been turning around, the thing had spirited through the mist again and dug it's teeth into his side. Air becomes harder to catch, every move of his pulsing lungs sending pain down to where the creature digs in. "I'm not gonna be your happy meal tonight, sucker." Dean grits through his teeth, slashing the crowbar towards the molting head. 

It swings right through. 

Forehead slick with cold sweat, the bite gets more aggressive, digging down to tear Dean apart. He'd survived too much to die from a stomach wound - his fingers scrabble to its' throat to rip the head off him, but they slip through mist. 

"Aldana, open it." He grunts, not knowing what would happen out there but it _had_ to be better than down here. She gasps by his ear, sluggish movements speeding up, a frantic shout as her shoulder slams against the door. 

Desperation, hopes, muffled prayers - whatever it was, moonlight juts down into the dark, the mist seeping out to merge the mass of fog from the lake. Aldana falls forward, and he pitches painfully to the side before crashing into her. 

He blinks in the flood of sudden light, staring up at the stars with a deep pull of air. Raising the crowbar, he expects the creature to come attacking him again - but it doesn't. 

It's staring past them, forgotten snacks. It's main meal stands horrified by his brother. 

"Aldana!" She cries through fingers caging her mouth, unphased by the monsters' presence. "¿Te hizo daño?" _Did he hurt you?_

Dean rolls to his side, bunching his shirt over his wound as he rattles the pieces together in his head. _Fuck_ , these bites hurt like a motherfucker - he bites his lip down to redirect the pulsing pain, his forehead bunching with veins. Think, think. 

"Sam-" He heaves the crowbar up, arm aching as he arcs it towards his brother, gesturing the sigil on his shoulder. "Warding!" Those Stanford brain cells must be good for something because Sam jumps right to it, digging a pattern into the mud behind Bernadette - the monster approaches her carelessly, a prey already captured. 

"Lo lamento... pensé que no te haría daño." Bernadettes' voice wavers, sorrowful. _I'm sorry… I thought he wouldn't harm you._

Dean sees it now, terrified brown eyes begging forgiveness from her sister. 

"This is him, isn't it?" Aldana steadies herself on her arms, staggering up and holding her ribs carefully, curiosity between her laboured words. "The reason you didn't want me to investigate?" 

"Yes, it is him." Bernadette admits, glancing trepidly to the flayed figure. 

Behind her, Sam had dug down warding into the mud and was whispering what to do, the monster shambling forwards. Alarmed, she shakes her head, but he nods and presses the crowbar into her hands. 

It slips in her grasp, unsure. "I hurt those people."

"He made you do it!" Aldana insists in a burst, fearlessly stepping closer, as if she had held onto the words too long that even a monster would not dissuade her. "I know you would never hurt anyone - you have to let him go."

Bernadette stares at her reflection in the dirty crowbar. "He's my husband."

And the mystery becomes clearer - this twisted being bearing down was, at some point, Wade Tarn. Remnants of what he had been before the creature ate him alive. 

"He hasn't been _that_ for a long time. Look at him, look at us." Aldana persuades. "Deep down, you are a Rivera not a Tarn. His vengeance is not yours to bear." Swaying on her feet, voice a soft plea. "Let him go."

Resolved, Bernadette tightens her grip on the crowbar as the monster picks up pace, a flash moment of decision and she screams into the swing - shattering skin off him, stumbling into the warding. 

Sam tenses nearby, ready to help if the warding hadn't worked, but the creature doesn't move. It stares at Bernadette in the same eerie way it had them, trembling crowbar and her head bowed. 

Aldana struggles over, wrapping her hands around her sisters'. A silent strength builds between them and together they raise the crowbar, crashing it down onto the monster who shatters into mirrored pieces under their force. 

Fragments fall like spires of silver where it's struck. Slowly, the sisters' stopping when one needs to steady herself or when the other doubles over from strained ribs, the creature crumbles. 

Dean jumps when Sam grabs to pull him up, the numbed pain of his wounds smarting with movement. "You hurt?" He asks, leaning on his brother as he limps to the Impala. 

"No, just muddy." Sam says, ditching him in the backseat and the delayed realisation he'd be getting mud all over Baby makes him groan. "Where did it get you?" He asks, unzipping the first aid kit and pulling out a threaded needle with its driver. 

He picks up his shirt, fabric sticking uncomfortably to his blood-slick side. The needle bites, a numbed sensation of tugging skin with each stitch. From the car he keeps an eye on the sisters, but they're kicking this things' ass now that it was trapped. 

Each shattering crash that squints their eyes closed, they open brighter, the end in sight. 

Sam tugs the final stitch, moving to help them - Dean catches his arm. 

"Stitch my shoulder too." At his brothers' confusion, he tilts his head to the scene. "They should do it, for themselves." He can feel the silent questions and shrugs. "Besides, you haven't been in the gym for ages, so you wouldn't help at all."

Sam grins, coming to the same conclusion. Damn, it feels good to smile now that the case was wrapping up. He ignores the flash of tan, black and blue across his mind - still stuff to do before he could think of home. 

"There's a bunch of mirrors down there with names scratched in." Dean tells him, holding still so the shoulder stitches start smoothly. 

Sam nods, like he'd been expecting that. "Bernadettes' injuries happened when she hit the mirror her husband had been taken through. That thing stepped out instead." He tugs the thread. "So, I reckon we free them by breaking the mirrors."

"How in the hell did you work that out?" He asks warily, he hadn't been basement-buried for long. 

Sam lances the thread through the needle. "I told her the truth, then she returned the favor."

His brother was nothing if not consistent, chancing his life in pursuit of the truth. "Of course you did." He mutters, shaking his head. It was the same reckless attitude he'd had as a kid, one he envied as much as he feared. Guess at this point, growing out of it wasn't an option. 

Sam must sense a storm because he questions, "What's this warding?" 

Distracted, he checks his circled shoulder with an enochian symbol inside, lines of blue broken by that bite. "Uh, don't remember. Cas wanted me to get it." His brother didn't need to know he'd been searching for an answer too. 

A snip of scissors across the thread. "He never told you what that mark meant?" It's curious in the same way he asked what the rules of a game were before he won it, holding the winning hand. "You should ask him sometime."

Yeah, like that was gonna happen. 

They fall quiet, watching the sisters break apart the beast of their past into slivers of reflected moonlight. 

* * *

"I think it was a Vindico!" Sam calls through to him in the motel bathroom, where he stands stitching his arm again. After the last mirror pieces fell, they'd sandpaper-scored down the rest before shattering them. Along with chucking the jagged remains into the lake and driving homebound, his stitches were weeping. 

Maybe he got a little competitive throwing, trying to sink them far from shore but it'd been worth it for the relieved laughter of the sisters. 

"The lore I found says it's summoned by pure fire, but maybe just the _element_ has to be pure. Wade Tarn had all that vengeance inside him and nowhere to fuel it, I think the lake he lived by was the perfect vessel for that." Sam rambles, clearly excited to have found something new to add to the lore. 

"Alright, note it down." He says, using the motel mirror to direct the needle, his tongue poking through teeth in concentration. He rolls his eyes seeing Sam sit straight down and pick up a pen. "Not _now_ , genius. Go get us some food before the stores shut."

"Right, right, sorry." Sam says unapologetically, scribbling something in the pages as he stands. 

"That kid…" He shares a look of commiseration with his smudged self. The door clicks closed and he snips the thread. It's silent when he clatters the scissors down on the porcelain sink. 

Alone, he doesn't trust his reflection. 

Instead of catching his own eyes in mirrored surfaces he would see milky white and pupiless, pitless black or the worst, a burning brown. 

He splashes water over his face, letting droplets run where they want, a chaos he could easily control with a wipe of a towel. It's tempting to throw the cloth over the mirror, to ignore the chance that the Vindico had followed them. 

They were so close to home - he has to hold firm that it hadn't. 

Checking the stitches one last time, he nods to the streaked reflection and turns his back on the mirror. Cold rushes up his spine, but he refuses to check, swinging the door shut. 

* * *

"Home sweet home." Dean mutters sarcastically, hands raised over his head as three strangers point guns at them from the maproom floor. "Seriously, do we need name badges around here?" 

His shoulder spasms and he drops the surrender, to concerned shouts down below. These new recruits for his brothers' network weren't exactly Einsteins.

"No, hey, where is Eileen?" Sam calls down to them, his own hands only raised half-heartedly. 

"Guns down." The lady in question demands, striding in front of the barrels, forcing them to point at the ground when they didn't comply fast enough. "In the kitchen, I'll explain there." Short and sharp, the hunters glance guiltily before being on their way. 

"Sorry about that. They were excited to meet you." Eileen says, waiting at the bottom of the stairs with a grin, one Sam matches before catching her lips in a greeting kiss. "They weren't the only ones." She spares a small wave to Dean, that he tiredly returns a moment too late. 

Sam slings his canvas bag over one shoulder, leaning down to listen to an excited Eileen over a detailed run-down of the hunting networks' progress. He holds her hand, almost as an after thought.

Exhaling, he chucks his bag onto the map-table where it crumples stretches of paper and skitters pencils to the floor. Were they doing arts and crafts in here or some shit? Whatever, he'll pick it up in a minute. After he rests his eyes. 

Distant chatter with clinks of _his_ beer, that flickering draft he could never pin the origin of, this empty space he thought he'd be glad to reunite with instead pressing tight on his chest. 

A hand eventually touches his shoulder, there long and steady enough for him to know exactly who it is. 

Turning, he leans back on the map table, not enough energy to restrain himself from checking Cas over. Dark scruff had grown in, just a few weeks without shaving made his shadow more permanent. Curls of black hair around his ears where it was growing out, that his fingers twitch to tangle in. He leaves the best for last, letting himself be anointed by adoring blue eyes. 

Well, hello heartbeat. 

"Long day at the office?" He sounds sappy as shit, can _hear_ the smile, fingers reaching up to tug the tie of Cas' suit ensemble. The move jostles him closer and he skims his knuckles away, before he does something stupid. 

"Very long." Cas rumbles, reminiscent of that waterfall and he floats on the rapids of his tone. "Fourteen days worth." Yeah, he hears that, whistling sympathetically and shifts when his gaze darts down to pursed lips. Picture-perfect, his head unhelpfully replays Eileen reaching up to greet his brother with a kiss, knuckles turning white with tension. 

Nope. No. He's not - that's not what they could do. 

Cas doesn't seem to share the same reservations, slipping one hand under his short sleeve and the other rumples the edge of his shirt, spanning the tender bruised skin. 

"Woah, cold hands." Shocked, the words slip out as a defense for anyone stumbling across them. They probably knew by now that a gentle touch to the forehead would woosh away worrying injuries, that the way Cas covers the wounds on his side was a tad too intimate. 

If they had issues, they'd have to raise it with someone else because Dean sure as shit wasn't going to stop this. Blue-white shines through the fabric of shirt, skin hissing and spitting where the glory of grace commands it back together. 

Metal hums on his tongue, his whole body lightly thrumming under Cas' concentration. A gentle dip of his brows, lids closed as if this was his most important task and the aches from his wounds wind up arteries and into Deans' heart. "Don't strain yourself, man. This stuff heals by itself."

Eventually the gleam dims although the touch lingers, a flash of unholy blue in his pupils. "It's worth it." Cas promises, skimming his shoulder where a healed inked enochian symbol settled over an old handprint scar. 

Questions pile up his throat, about the warding or how his grace was and if he'd used it on other hunters. If he'd managed to avoid altercations or if he'd healed up his own hurts as to not cause worry. He thinks of that damn kiss, soft and light, a greeting.

They say the grass is greener on the other side, but nobody told him about the terrifying rushing water below or the rickety rails of the bridge. 

Cas lightly lift his arms for a hug and, fuck it, he leans in to embrace his angel. 

And how stupid is it - that any available space on his body was marked with protective sigils, but only when he tucks his head into Cas' neck, sways with the thud of his human heart and welcome warmth wraps around him is when he _truly_ believes he's home safe. 

-

**FRACTURE FALLS**

_We are happy to announce that many members of our community who disappeared, have been found safely by rescue services. Although we cannot say more on this case, we wish them well in their recovery. As a notice, we have reports of human remains appearing in woods - we'd like to remind you that recent rainfall and land movement may have disturbed nearby graves, that this is no cause for concern…_

_-B. Rivera_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! :)
> 
> i had a bunch of fun making the lore for this creature and also the water related names - as always, i'd love for feedback if you have any below, it'll really help how i form the upcoming chapters! about the case or characterizations, anything <3
> 
> up next: old flames  
> \- j


	3. master of puppets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: john winchester being an abusive parent, internalized homophobia, unhealthy coping mechanisms, detatchment, implied sexual content

**_\- OASIS OBSERVER -_ **

_It is with heavy hearts, that we report the third uncontrolled house fire has left Oasis City with two more deceased. In this somber time, we ask you to keep the families of Morgan, Emertan and Johnson in your thoughts. Oasis High School will be providing fire safety sessions with Fire Lieutenant Dunnel..._

-

Three fires in a hot city, is not national news. 

The fourth house, mysteriously saved, made it hunting news. Sam had mapped out the fires and discovered a diagonal trajectory through the city, unrelenting at four in as many weeks. 

"Why are you humming _Ties That Bind_?" Dean asks gruffly, startling the sound away. He rubs his eyes, clinging to his coffee cup as he slipper-shuffles to the laptop screen. 

"I didn't notice, sorry." Sam looks up at his brother. "What do you think?" 

"I think you're going to get me more coffee." Dean grunts, shoving the empty into his hands. "And, I think I'm going to say goodbye to Cas."

Oasis, Arizona, here they come.

* * *

Sam had a secret he was keeping from Dad - he really liked the theatre club. 

He'd joined under Deans' demand, needing somewhere safe to store him until the hunt was done, and it was the only one open. Scripts and performing, he couldn't do to save his life, so they dropped him in front of a mixing deck and said _have at it._

Turns out, hunting instincts transferred well into hitting light and sound cues. Bright costumes, fantasy stories on a stage where he could correct the myths in a murmur to other intrigued students. 

When walking back to the motel, he couldn't stop his own enthusiasm, telling Dean everything even if his exhausted brother never really got it. He'd nod along, listening with love. 

The night of the play, he wears the best shirt he owns, having washed and stitched up the holes. Excitement buzzed through everyone in the club, it was finally time to show their friends and family the put together pieces of their play. 

So when he sees Dean in the dark parking lot, he can't help his own hope. Then he sees the slouch, the defeat in his eyes and twists away, balling his fist to his head. Now? 

"Sammy." Dean calls across the space and no, he doesn't want to hear it. The lights inside the hall beckons and he runs. 

"Come get me later!" He demands, fighting against his brother as he catches his shoulder. 

"I tried - I asked him, okay?" Through the blur of tears, he sees the crack in Deans' defence, the bruising around his eyes that only appeared after a sharp slap to the head. 

"I don't want to go!" Sam shouts from his clenching chest, pushing out of his grip. 

"Sam," Dean struggles, halfway between a plea and a snap. "I know you want to do your play, I know, and I'm _sorry_ but we have to - Dads' orders." 

They always have to go. 

He screws up his eyes, collapsing back with a sob into his brothers' shoulder, hearing whispered apologies that sting like salt in a wound. 

"I hate him." Sam realises, the truth settling in his heart. Tugged like dogs around the world, tied up at stores or schools, never given the time of day unless they made a mess. 

"Don't say that." Dean tries. 

He slumps, staring past the rain splattered tarmac where stagelights dance over puddles in purples and blues. The storm clouds soak them through, enough that his tear-stained shirt turns transparent. 

Black beast, pouring smoke from its' metal lungs, the Impala lays in wait for them. 

Sam slips silently away, ignoring the sigh. "Next town, it won't be like this." It's not a promise his brother can keep, knows that he'll try anyway and will bruise for his troubles. 

He shudders into the backseat, staring at the shadow of Dad as it silhouettes the streaking rain outside. 

"Finally."

The engine turns and the headlights catch the concern in Deans' eyes, squeezing his shoulder - but he is stone, statue rocking on damp leather, a monument forever displaced. 

*

It's not the next town. They don't stay long enough to learn their teachers' names. 

It's not the town after that. Dean discovers his homework stuffed in the bin, far away from his curled body on the motel bed. His brother strokes his scraggy hair, silent apology for things he can't control, sleeve drying with blood. "C'mon, dinner." 

They don't have food money but Dean crinkles a bag from an expensive shop on the other side of town, trying to hide it before he can see. The buzzing motel sign and occasional shouts fill the space between their words, scarfing down their stolen goods. 

*

Deaths, disappearances, discussed in the drivers seat. 

Sam squints against the road bumps, blurring the words of the book he didn't get time to return. Technically, it's well written but the emotional punch could've been delivered by a deflating balloon for all it affected him. 

"Samuel! Are you listening?" 

"No." Sam responds plainly, trying to find his sentence again. 

"Sit up and pay attention." John orders and marionette on a string, he slouches, head lolling on the backseat. "It's a good lead, big hunt in the works. I'm meeting with a group to take care of it. Dean's in charge until I'm back. Clear?" 

Something, something, ditching them again. "Clear." He slips back into his book but the letters look like scratch marks, sentences scored lines on paper. 

Dean swats his leg. "Hey, look alive fighter." A printed pamphlet of one _Oasis High School_ hovers over him.

"That's our new haunt. It's got a bunch of after school stuff, all the nerdy crap you like." He stares at nothing but a brick building. "Classes are about thirty students, so you're bound to annoy one into liking you." 

"You usually scare them off." Sam responds quietly and it makes Dean laugh.

"Not this time." He waggles his brows, tapping the cheerleading picture. "I got myself a way to keep busy."

"Gross." He flips it open, seeing the theatre club and twisting his lip. "How long are we staying?" He asks blankly. 

"Month or two." John tells him. 

A month or two. He doesn't know if he can handle his heart being broken for the second time, in a month or two. It's near the end of the year, the spaces would be full anyway. 

"Maybe the next town." Sam sweeps the pamphlet onto the floor, ignoring worried glances from his brother as he continues staring past the Impalas' roof. 

* * *

"Have we worked a case in Oasis before?" 

Sam gives up writing, his pen scrawling as grit rattles their tyres. They had veered off the main road when Deans' stomach started speaking, rumbling down an endless stretch of sand. 

"Not ringing any bells here." Dean answers distractedly, turning into the diner of the day and parking under a patch of shade.

Miracle senses a change, standing with his tail thumping the back seat. "Come on buddy." Dean chants, rattling the dogs' collar around as he gives a good scratch. "Sammy's gonna take you on a walk with those freakish legs." Rounding the car, he hears Dean mumble through a kiss to the dogs head, "Aim for the kneecaps if he speeds up."

Sam raises his eyebrows. "Are you advising our dog on how to beat me, at a walk?" He laughs at Deans' bad cover up, clearing his throat and straightening his jacket. 

"No. Whatever, I'm gonna get us a table inside." He points threateningly. "Don't lose him." Sam rolls his eyes, knowing Miracle had joined a particularly precious collection of things that Dean would wreck the world for. 

So far that included: the Impala, immediate family and Cas. 

*

Pleasant heat from the sun settles on his skin as they walk, wind wisping sand grains off the ground to drift along. There's something achingly familiar about this expansive desert plain, the ridge and start of shrubbery in the distance, but he can't place it. 

What is he missing? 

They return to the car blended into the shade, Sam splashing water into a travel bowl, shaking his head in disbelief as droplets land on the leather seat. "We're lucky to have you." He scritches behind Miracles' floppy ears while he laps up his drink. "I wanted a dog so long on the road - kind of kismet that Dean found you."

He should feel dumb talking to a dog in the same way Dean talks to the Impala but, sometimes a third pair of ears is nice. Even if he does have to treat him to keep interested - maybe his brothers' plot to turn Miracle against him was working. Did he really need _two_ trenchcoat-tanned best friends? 

He pats the sleepy sandy head and sets off, a jolly bell ringing as he enters the diner. 

*

Deans' easy to spot, grinning at the waitress over a plate of pie. 

Sliding into the seat opposite, he waits for the storm of flirtation to abate. Waits for her advances to be brushed off, to hear something, _anything_ , about Cas. His face pinches disapprovingly until Dean catches on, asking sweetly for another order so the waitress walks away. 

"Dude, you're taken." His teenage brother had taught him the basic respect of not double timing, but now he breaks off the tip of his pie and hums like - "Don't block me out! I'm serious, why didn't you tell her about Cas?" 

The name at least gets attention. Dean drinks his coke and frowns, but not with concern. "Why would I?" 

"Because it's Cas." 

Had he forgotten the pitifully pained looks when Dean flirted with someone else? Shit, if he was in that situation he'd have lost it by now - while not quite telly novella levels of dramatic, his brother and Cas got close to it sometimes. 

He doesn't like to think about which supporting role he'd be cast as, he'd much rather work the lights with Eileen. She'd probably joke he should hold the boom stick, because he wouldn't need to stretch to get it over their heads. 

"So what, someone flirts with you, just jump into talking about Eileen?" 

Sam effortlessly replies, "Yeah." 

Dean holds his eyes then wipes his lips with a napkin, leaning forward. "It's different for us." 

"No it's not." He starts, but is swept by. 

"It is, Sammy. You and Eileen, you're both human-" It's so off center to their conversation that he cuts back in. 

"That's not even true-" 

"Yeah but, she came back from being a ghost, like you came back from all the shit God put you through, redeeming yourselves with that network. You're under the radar." Sam stays silent as Dean drinks his cherry coke, like he wishes it was liquor. "Cas and me." He flicks his head to the side, a host of history in that shake. 

"Even if our hands were forced, there's still blood on them. So when revenge comes? It'll come for us." _The monsters_ , goes unsaid. "I mean, his grace is mostly gone so we're still figuring out what that makes him. We're still targets." 

He knows his brother, covered in protective warding, believes that. Believed they were free, as much as he thought they could stick around in one town longer than a month. Sam drops his head, losing the fire in his argument. 

"And we haven't exactly got a lot of trump cards in our deck. So uh, forgive me for not trailing his name - for not telling a woman who's going to forget I exist, the minute we roll out." 

To prove his point, two plates of food land on their table as the waitress from earlier distractedly takes their empties away. Dean spreads his hands. _See?_

* * *

Sam tests fading pens, while they wait in reception chairs, confused school admins hunting for their classes. When the teacher talks animatedly about their 'new student' he waves, to no one in particular. Another wash of faces for his mind to forget, footprints in the sand. 

Middle of day, middle of class, he's glad to have already done this module on the road - forty times over. He lends a pen to some guy, indifferent when it splinters under his shoe, asking for another. Answers filled early, he stares out the dusty windows until it's time to go back to Dean. 

It's just him and his brother in the motel room. Dean cleans his gun on the same tick-torn table that he serves up dinner, the same place Sam spends time answering senseless questions. 

"I'm never going to need this." He sighs defeatedly to his brother, who's scooping another serving of instant mac into his bowl. 

"It'll all be helpful someday." Dean says with his back to him, moving to clean up the dishes before everything gets stuck together. "Like, if I cut off one vamp head out of three, how many times do I swing my machete to take out the rest of 'em?" 

"Two." 

" _Five_ , c'mon, you know that!" Using his butterknife, he starts cutting the air in demonstration. "One over the chest for distraction and then-" A strong rapping of knuckles on their door has his brother switching to his sharper blade, only opening up an inch. 

"John Martins, that you?" The voice bellows outside, older and rough. 

"Who's asking?" Dean demands, barbed wire covering every syllable. The man outside launches a tirade about not meeting their payments, his brother brushing him off, fighting him on it but eventually slams the door shut in aggravation. 

Sam had already packed their bags. 

*

".... parched as hell because the dickbag owner cut our water." Dean speaks into the flip phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, turning the Impala into the sunny school parking lot. "Yes, sir. We'll meet you there. Understood." 

Dean passes the phone so he can speak to John and he delights in ending the call without a word. Guilt flickers, seeing the frustration on his brothers' face. 

"Man, just - take this and go wash up, I'll come get you after school." He slips a bar of soap into his hoodie pocket, ferocious heat flooding the car when he creaks open the dusty door. 

Watching the black beast drive down the mirage of a road, he hears water splashing on the ground nearby, but squinting against the sun shows him only withered shrubbery. He waits. A messy sniffle draws him to the source and he stops in surprise. 

Behind one of the dead bushes is a girl, scrubbing insistently at her forehead with water. Her soaked blonde bangs dribble black ink over her fingers, clearly desperate to remove the thickly marked words. It sends murky droplets landing on her fraying summer dress. 

"Here." Sam offers out the soap from his pocket. 

She startles, hand fluttering on her chest and brown eyes stare widely at him in panic. 

"It'll help get the ink off." He stays steady until slowly, she takes it. Her face crumples, breaking off a measured piece. 

"Thank you." Hoarse, she works hard to not cry - honestly, he'd seen a _lot_ worse. "You're the new guy, aren't you?" Her stuffy voice crackles, tissues wiping away more mess, he nods. "If you can, avoid the girls at the back of the class." She sniffs, wiping her nose. "They're not as nice as they seem."

Sam smiles as he always does, learning the town bullies and sweethearts. Didn't they know, once you left, these things didn't matter? 

Wiping her hands, she extends one tensely. "Scarlet… Dunnel." She adds her last name, like it should mean something to him. He shrugs, shaking right back. 

"Sam Martins. My family just moved here so, I came in early to talk to a teacher." He rattles off the lie, a well practiced performance and her tension softens. 

Tucking her hair, she offers to buy lunch and his empty stomach soars. They walk with idle chatter into the deserted school, a nice rhythm of conversation. Standing in the sun hadn't helped his smell though and he needs to find showers, searching the unhelpful school signs. 

"The furthest hallway there's an exit door, should be a blue bucket by it. Through there is the… teachers' room." She hands him back the soap, no questions as to why he carried it around. Sam smiles his thanks, seeing her nervous fingers twist together. "Thanks again, I'll see you at lunch!" 

With her waved promise down the hallway, fingers catching the sun struggling through the locker-lined windows, he takes her advice. Sure enough, the door by the blue bucket leads to a room - the gym showers. 

As he screeches on the water, using the remaining soap on himself, he wonders what sort of house Scarlet lives in that nobody saw the thick letters painted on her forehead. 

Maybe for once, he got help not based in pity.

*

"There was this girl at school today-" 

"Oh Sammy, you sly dog!" His brother laughs where he lays in the backseat, breath fogging in the cold car. He leans over, knees knocking into the wheel to shove him in embarrassment. "Breaking hearts all around town, is that it?" 

Dean _looked_ like he'd been all around town, clothes dusty and ripped in places, but he'd found them some money - Sam had stolen from the kitchens, so their evening was filling with laughter and mostly satisfied stomachs. 

"Not anything like that, gross!" He smiles, telling his brother all about Scarlets' animation over her clubs, slowing down when mentioning theatre. Thing is, her excitement had stirred bittersweet memories and he falls silent, picking at his fingers.

"Sammy," The leather crinkles as Dean leans earnestly over to catch his eyes, brows raised and resolute. "Join the frigging club, okay. You got the time for it," He lists off on his fingers. "You already got a little girlfriend over there, and you got the smarts."

That's not his problem. 

"Put some effort in and I promise, on my ring, I'll come see it." Dean says suddenly and he stares at his brother because - wow. He meant it. Promises came a dime a dozen, but he knew this one was real.

Moms' ring was their last real evidence that there'd been a life before all this, that maybe there would be after, and it never left Deans' torn knuckle. 

"... yeah, okay." Sam says, smiling at the stars that spark like spotlights. Dean claps his hands, proud of a job well done. 

The Impala door swings wide open at his feet, ripping any warmth into the void of night. Blocking out the stars is a leather jacketed man, breath heavy with drink and clothes of ash. 

"Move."

Sam draws in his legs, climbing to wedge himself into the footspace before the backseat. The piping of the Impala digs into his sides uncomfortably and his head catches painfully on metal, as John rests along the drivers' seat. 

He doesn't talk, and they don't try to. 

Sam sleeps poorly. At some point, his brother covered him in their stolen motel blanket and wedged his hoodie under his head. But even with that, _even_ when John leaves with another hunter in the morning and tosses them a few singles, what brings him the most comfort is Deans' promise. 

* * *

"Huh." Sam sounds fascinated, staring down the road ending in a huge brick school and shrubby dead plants. 

"What?" Dean grunts, climbing back into the car. This case was crawling like a cockroach under his collar and driving him _crazy_. The white plastic bag on his lap even felt familiar, but he sure as shit knows he's never bought anything from a store that pricey. 

"This town…" He trails off, shaking his focus back to the case. 

*

"Mr Lassai?" Dean asks, flashing his reporters badge as a man opens the door, his gold and green satin wrap elegant over his cool umber skin. He holds a wine glass like it's supposed to be held, skimming them over shrewdly. 

"It's Mr Dunnel nowadays." He corrects, taking a steadying burgundy sip. The name swills in his brain, circling around a plug hole. "Call me Daryn. I suppose you're here about the attack?" He asks, stepping into his house. 

They glance at each other - there'd been no mention of _attacks_ with the fires. 

They follow Daryn into a cozy living room, where he curls his legs sideways on his cream couch. Shelves overflow with trophies and vine plants, the white plaster boasting faded film posters and framed family pictures. 

He's amused by the small extinguishers dotted around. "Accident prone?" He asks, drawing a smile out of Daryn - every expression he made only emphasised their chumpiness, struggling to sit in comfortable chairs. 

"More than my husband think's safe." He admits, slipping his socked feet down to the floorboards with a sigh. "But as I've told everyone before, what happened to me was no accident." 

"We understand that you experienced the same devastating fires as the other families, except that this house somehow survived." Sam starts off, holding his reporters notepad. 

"I can't explain it." Daryn says, hands tight on his glass. "Last night I came down to get water, when fire started coming up from under the cabinets. I tried throwing my glass, but it was… terrifying, it didn't stop." He gulps, wafting imagined fumes away. "It was so hot and the smoke, it…" 

They wait as he composes himself, posture tense like he had more to say. 

"So, you called it an attack," Dean leans forward, trying to hold the mans' flickering eyes. "What did you see?" 

"A woman, unburned by the flames." Daryn whispers, clinching his gown tighter to him. "I swear, she was blocking my escape." He grows more animated, pointing to where she supposedly appeared, not a foot from them. "It's only when my husband arrived that the fire stopped."

Sams' eyebrows raise. "It stopped burning?" 

"It got put out - my husband is a firefighter." Daryn drinks, considering them over the rim. "Which town did you say you were reporting for?" 

Ah, they didn't think that far ahead and as he's spinning a lie, the front door opens. "That'll be him." Daryn explains, standing up as they turn around to greet - 

Holy shit. 

The baseball trophies, the movie posters, all of it stung like a slap to the face. 

Fire Lieutenant Dunnel was _Gunner_.

No way fate decided to fuck him over like this. He feels Sam side-eyeing him hard, because he can tell Deans' discovered something that's going to make their life, hell. He shifts subtly, like he wasn't getting smashed in the skull, submerged in sickening memories of their past. Some fuckin' Oasis. 

Greeting his husband with a kiss, Daryn gestures to their presence. He scrambles to slam the brakes on this sudden sensory info-dump, tries to maintain neutral as the man shakes Sams' hand first. But fuck if he can't kill his heart rate at that same easy smile, the thick tanned arms leading to a hand that easily dwarfs his in welcome. 

He rattles off his fake identity, normal enough for them to settle again. Daryn rests a ringed hand comfortably on a broad shoulder, _ringed_ , right because the dude got married. 

"I'm real glad these fires are getting the attention they deserve." Gunners' accent had changed, smoother and mature. "Daryn, did you tell 'em about the others already?" 

"No, only ours. I wasn't sure what the station wanted public." He says, turning his ring until his husband links their hands. 

"That's alright, I know the paper these guys are from." They stiffen in surprise, going with the curveball. "They need all the facts to do a good job. So, I'll tell them off the record - these fires had no accelerant and started in unusual places in the home, no electric cables or heat sources." 

Dean feels like he's in outer space, completely disconnected from how Sam nods and note-takes. Did he know? Daryn seems comforted that his husband trusted these strangers, at least he _hoped_ he was a stranger. Did he remember? 

"I think she's a serial arsonist. I can't explain how she managed to escape the fire, otherwise." Daryns' voice spikes and he drains his wine. "I don't know why she would want to hurt us."

"We're investigating any possible connections between the families." Sam assures honestly. 

"Let me get you a refill." Gunner says, picking up his husbands' wine glass before pointing directly at Dean. "You mind helping carry in some coffees?" 

Cramming his freakout far below detection, he shrugs and stands, leaving his brother to investigate in the living room. "Sure." 

Black scorch marks mar the cabinets, snaking around the skirting and various spots on the walls, like someone went haywire with a flamethrower. 

"I'm glad someone is investigating these fires - it's been a big hit to my team. Even if we weren't the station handling those calls, it's the knowing that hurts." Gunner talks in his new slow drawl, turning on the coffee machine. 

"Shame about the scorches it's uh, nice place you got here." Dean offers, hands clenched in his pockets. "Safe." He taps the extinguisher perched on the counter. 

"Nice place." He agrees on the move, bringing down mugs. "Got this fixer-upper fresh out of _Oasis High_." 

Dean raises his eyebrows. "That's, wow. How'd you manage it?" His persona peels back, presented with a past he was tentative to hear about. 

"Kicked out the original owners." Gunner grins like he should know what that means. He tenses, because no matter how much he tried to forget Gunner and his life, of course it was still there, buried under a trapdoor. 

"Got inspired by this guy in high school. Kind of turned my world on it's head and ran - never thought I'd see that heartbreaker again." He leans on the counter with complete recognition in his kindly brown eyes and, well, fuck. 

"How in the hell are you, Dean Winchester?" 

* * *

Dad slams the Impala door shut, heavily gripping the wheel. They sit silently as the car rocks still, not a word spoken as the engine turns over. 

"We lost Hector." 

Dean knows fuck all about that hunter, but he knows his dad grieves furiously and that this road leads to the bar. He bites his lip in frustration. 

For towns now, he'd been robbing joints so Sammy could eat, putting his ass on the line during hunts, pretending there would be praise at the end of it. He's been bugging his brother to join a club, so he wouldn't eat, work, sleep in the cold car and now Dad's going to blow their motel room money at the fucking _bar_. 

He bottles it up, storing it away in his cellar of shit he can't say. 

"Sorry to hear it, sir. Hector was a good guy."

*

Hustling was harder, knowing Sam was sleeping alone outside in the car. Dad goaded the guys into games, bragging taller stacks of singles each time. Dean, well, he was the sugar-sweet clutz who missed pockets and grinned mistakes into his palm, catching the eye of anyone assuming an easy win. 

One guy in an _Oasis High_ letterman watches him, drinking alone. Golden streaks of bar light catch his tan skin and dark waves of hair, shifting with each sip of beer. Dads' drunken demands for rematches occasionally draws his attention, but when Dean fumbles the pool stick or plays up frustration, it's all eyes on him. 

When he wins and acts surprised, his crowd laugh in good spirits, deeply contrasting the shoves Dad endures as he silently takes their singles to the bar. He takes a table near the window with sand caught in its' scratches, keeping an eye on Sammy outside and Dad in the reflection, settled for a long night. 

"Nice game you played there." It's Letterman, sliding into the seat opposite. Stuck in lookout mode, he boots his brain back into working the case, thinking this local might have heard about the deaths. 

"Naturally ungifted, that's me." He grins. "Here with friends?" 

The guy points behind him to a booth, where two frazzled women wave in agitation at one another. "Designated driver."

He knows the feeling, checking on Dad to see him making moves on a lady at the bar. Sweetening her up to buy him a drink, despite the winnings in his pocket. 

"What's your name?" Dean asks for a distraction. 

"Gunner." 

Dean huffs, amused. "You're kidding."

"What's funny?" The guy asks curiously as he chuckles, trying to wave it off but gives in to the intrigued brown eyes across from him. 

"It's just, my last names’ Winchester."

"Ha, what a gun-slinging pair we make then." He grins and it’s not a line, but it reels him in anyway. Taking in how Gunner leans with his beer, bicep pressing up against the thin varsity jacket sleeve. 

He licks his lips, "Yeah."

*

In terms of the case, Gunner was a dead end. 

It didn’t stop their talk though, Dean finding trickles of amusement among the usual town gossip, eyes flickering less to the bar as he enjoys the company. It’s not until Gunner drums his hands on the table to get them another drink that he realizes with a slow curl of dread - he’d just used Dads’ move. He glances to the bottle filled bar, seeing his father firmly in a stupor.

He should drag the deadweight out to the car, check if Sammy's sleeping. He thumbs the empty beer label, flaking it away. It’s just - he hadn't been with anyone for a few towns now. No skirt, and shirt was a rarer indulgence. The bars crowd such that if he and Gunner cooped up in the cubicles for a bit, it wouldn't rock the boat. His shoulders drop, deciding to give it a go. 

A fresh beer lands next to his knuckles and he tips it against the other, looking over as he drinks. Sure enough he's being watched but, distractedly. "Something up?"

"Just, uh. They're yelling at me about heading home." He hooks a thumb behind him where the two drunk women were now clumsily helping each other into their coats, complaining about the heat. Dean feels his evaporate.

"Oh, right." He drinks, drowning the dejection. It was a stupid thought anyway. 

"I would’ve told them to get back themselves, but my sister and cousin live with us - they're not exactly fun wine aunts." Gunner says regretfully and though he doesn't mean to, he latches onto that honesty while the rest of him begins building walls back up. 

"I get it." 

Gunners eyes slide to the stooped over black-haired man. "I'm sorry you do." It's worse that this guy seems genuine, like he wants to know him - like he already kind of did. They run down to the dregs, when Gunner claps his shoulder. "I play the baseball pitch on Thursdays, if you ever want to see my game." 

Dean raises his eyebrow at the phrasing, but Gunner just winks before herding the two women out the door. He lingers a little longer, waiting for car headlights to pull away from the lot before his hand thumps the table. He runs a palm over his face to hide it from surprised looks. 

_No outbursts, no public arguments. Nothing that would draw attention to us_ . Those were Dad's instructions but nowadays Dean heard it as, _Nothing that would make us human._

He's steady pulling Dad from his stool, steady working their way into the Impala, steady staring down the dark dusty road ahead. He wonders where the hell he's even driving to, since Dad didn't book a room. He sees Sammy sleeping in the backseat and dreads the day when he'd have to hustle tables too. 

Then he laughs at the fact tonight, he'd acted like his dad and like a queer, at how he'd fucked up and combined everything his family hated into one, broken, boy. 

* * *

"The fires are why you came, right?" Gunner asks, voice low in confiding. "Well, I got something to tell you. Daryn believes I put out those flames, but the house was ablaze. I saw him passed out and thought it was too late."

"You went in anyway." Dean realizes, nodding. It tracked that he'd be the self-sacrificing kind of guy, because he was nothing if not consistent about his type. 

"I did. When I went in without my gear, I knew the smoke and heat could kill me too - then it all stopped, like there never was a fire." Gunner turns his coffee cautiously. "I didn't see the woman Daryn did. Is she like that other… thing?" 

Needles of ice draw bumps to his skin, chilling his veins and pulse, a reflective urge to check his shadow. 

"Nah." Dean dismisses with a dry throat. "Not the same."

  
  


*

"Beautiful venue - is it around here?" Sam asks about a wedding picture on the shelf, investigating by sight for bags of bones or strange markings. 

Daryn drifts his fingers over the frame, head tilting softly in remembrance. "This was the Clayton House in Scottsdale… oh, everyone was stunning that day." Sam stops when the glossy image filled with floating lights and an arch of flowers slides under his gaze. It beams, each catch of light shining on another person's smile. "That's all my side and then of course, Gunners' sisters there." His finger taps two smiling faces, one who's black hair curled into a bun and the other who's blonde curls fell forwards. 

"Avery was the one to introduce Gunner and I, actually." Still entranced by the joyful picture, he lifts his eyebrows in intrigue. "I met her at an art class and look here," He moves them to a canvas leaning against the wall, thick paint smoothed into shapes. "Her confidence with acrylics astounded me, never turning away a challenge."

The memory comes back like a jolt of electricity, shuttering on a distant past. "I think I knew her." Daryn turns now to him, hands clasped in delight, as the faded scenes return. "And her cousin, Scarlet, I used to go to _Oasis High_ with them."

He can sense an awkwardness in the air, as Daryn tugs his gown closer and laughs politely. "Excuse me just a second." He motions, heading up the stairs. Sam wonders what he said out of turn, checking over to see Dean distracting Gunner as he's given free range of the room. 

His theory didn't stray far from Daryns' idea of a serial arsonist, except he could explain the woman disappearing on being a ghost. But what would make a ghost go serial? 

Unable to find any other occult markings, he sits back down in his chair. A gleam of paper catches his eye, three distinct sigils of the human world, buried beneath takeout menus. He bends quickly to look at the birth certificates, sitting back in surprise. _No way._

-

**DEAN**

_I think we've got our monster_

* * *

"This is your new home!" Mrs Parrish trills, throwing open the lighting booth door. Two swivel chairs look out through a flimsy plex-window to the stage, surrounded by switches and buttons. The whole room hums with electricity about to snap and cause a fire, thrumming through the metal filing cabinets crammed inside. 

"Uh, it's great." Sam says, which spurs the enthusiastic teacher to demonstrate each buttons' use. She explains not to touch the taped down switches, miming an explosion. 

"With that all said, I'll leave you to experiment on your own up here." And just maybe, he'd explode. "Your _roommate_ Avery should be along shortly, she was helping get the lights out of storage." He waves back hesitantly as she leaves, exhaling in the sudden silence. 

Picking up the lighting cues from the desk, he carefully moves the paper and sees an entire sheet filled with runes. They were line for line what he'd seen in the lore, _summoning_ , he searches for a pen, _burning_ , hurriedly he changes the shapes so they don't bring a creature into the already charged room. 

"What are you doing?" A confused voice asks over his shoulder and he flinches in surprise. Her frown crinkles the dark shades of makeup on her face, slightly sweating through her black-red clothing. _Avery?_

"Oh, hi." His pen hovers, unsure how to explain himself. "These are runes right? It's just my brothers big into… witch stuff." He doesn't feel bad about throwing Dean under the bus for this one. "This rune means 'burning'. Were you trying to hex the room?" 

"No, it always feels a cough away from annihilation in here." She huffs, pointing down to the stage where Scarlet was reading her lines. "The hexes are for her."

Sams' surprised by the vitriol in her voice. "Scarlet?" 

"A good spell would bring her back to reality." Avery claims, swivelling into the desk. He looks a little closer at her, seeing the slope of her cheeks close to matching the one now performing on stage. "It's all so…fake." She flicks her finger across a switch, dimming the light on Scarlets' performance. 

Stilling her hand, he raises the light level, remembering black marker droplets on a fraying dress. "Maybe being fake is what she needs."

*

The baseball dugouts aren't all that special but they shelter him from the rain as he smokes, the added bonus of watching a free practice game. He remembers rhythmic thuds of returning a baseball at Bobbys, of frantically bashing in a monster head with a shaky cry for almost touching Sammy. 

It doesn't take long for Gunner to find him, leaning inside the entrance with a smile like he hit a home-run. 

"I'm not a dealer." Dean starts and the guy drops his head with a grin. 

He folds his arms, brown eyes amused in the low light. "I didn't think so. Do you often get that?" 

They were different identities in every town, so he shrugs. "A lot of people thinking, someone's gotta be right."

"What if I was thinking you don't mind a guy chatting you up?" Gunners' voice bats lower, making him swallow his smoke. 

"How long you been waiting to ask me that one?" He counters, canting his head and considering the player.

Gunner shrugs, more honest than he could hope to be. "Pretty much as soon as you started bending over tables."

Dean smirks, flicking ash and glances his watch - the club had a good while to go before it finished. He stands, stubbing out his cigarette cinders. "Where?"

Turns out a closet left unlocked was the location. Dean perches on a spare desk, Gunner palming his thighs too close to his hidden knife - no innuendo intended. He moves those hands under his shirt instead and fizzles into the push, pull, laughs and tugs of clothes. He lets him slide off his oversized jacket to mouth down his neck, letting it crumple behind him and feeling lighter for it. 

When they're zipping up and wiping down, his watch startles them both with insistent beeps.

"My brothers' in a club." He provides to an amused look. "Don't want to leave him cooking in there too long."

"Theatre?"

"Lucky guess." 

"I used up all my luck on you." Gunner laughs, shrugging into his varsity jacket again as Dean pulls on his own, flipping the collar up to hide his neck. 

Even if he's a nice guy, he didn't need anyone looking too close at Sammy. "How'd you know then?" 

"Today from four until six, my sister thinks she's a starlet up on that stage." Said without sarcasm, all but bursting with pride. With the women he'd seen at the bar, he's sure anything but broken glass shining in that house is rare. 

Dean flicks at the school crest on his chest. "Seems you're all headed for fame." He doesn't mean for it to be a compliment but he's warm in this closet.

Gunner grimaces, looking to him with hesitance. "You won't… tell anyone?" 

So what, he's going to be somebody's secret again. Just because this has been one of his better catches didn't mean he got to hold on. He struggles in the silence, knowing he can't keep him hooked forever. 

"Dude, no. Don’t be a dick to me out there, and we're good." They'd be moving soon anyway, it wouldn't have worked, he convinces himself. 

Gunner sighs, somehow relieved and mourning an idea. 

"Yeah, well." Dean shuffles. "Wanna smoke before we pick up the kids?" 

* * *

"Your brother grew up like a damn oak." Gunner comments, looking where Sam bent almost in double to admire an artwork, as his husband revealed the meaning of the piece. 

"Yeah, left him in the sun too long." Dean smiles fondly, resisting the urge to fell him from his precarious position. 

"He do the same work as you?" Gunner asks cautiously, losing his air in a huff when he nods. "Christ. At least we're in good hands." He looks to the burn marks on their wall, shaking his head. "I'm just glad my sisters moved out when they did, unless the fire goes to them next."

It's an offhand comment that peaks his interest. They hadn't been able to find a solid link between the families affected so far, different schools and jobs, their only connection being based in Oasis. "Why would you think that?" 

Gunner rolls his cooling mug between his hands, guilt gripping his words. "Morgans' was the lawyer who transferred this house to my name. Emertan ruled the family case in our favour. The Johnsons' took my sisters in while I was making moves to adopt them officially." He frowns, heavy with responsibility. "They don't even remember, but I owe them a lot."

To them it'd been just another case but to Gunner, those people helped his family out from under their mothers' control. Dean scratches his head, pushing puzzle pieces together. The only thing making sense was a vengeful ghost, chasing down the people that ruined its' life, but that couldn't be possible unless… 

"Is she still alive?" 

Gunner shrugs, honestly. "She was at the courthouse. Once she lost the case, she took my aunt and skipped town. We never looked for her after that."

"Yeah, why would you." Dean agrees, licking his lips. Would this have been his life if he stayed in Oasis? Would he have followed into the courts, slapped down the judges' gavel and got Dad out of their lives for good? Would the monsters have left them alone, if he'd taken that step sooner? 

His phone skitters on the table, lighting up his homescreen of Cas - it was the dumb photo he took in Tombstone, the sky blue and endless behind his halo of a cowboy hat. 

"That your guy?" 

His heart picks up pace, thudding expectantly for him to deny, deny, deny until the danger of discovery passed. But - his question isn't a searchlight, instead it's one of the many homely lamps scattered in the house he shared with his husband. 

"Uh, yeah." 

Gunner hums into his coffee and the world moves on, though he can breathe a little easier. The spiraling doubts turn slowly into indistinct patterns, fears with no fire. He opens the message from Sam and nods, looking up to meet a kind brown gaze. 

"I think we got what we came for." He grins at the low impressed whistle. "What can I say, we work fast."

"Damn right you do." Gunner shakes his head in disbelief, drowning his dregs and slapping the table once as he stands. "Alright, well, I'll see you out." 

It's when they're on his porch, waiting for Daryn and Sam to finish up their intense art conversation, that he idly flips his fake badge and asks, "How'd you know it was me?" 

He'd been here two months, maybe less and it'd been years. 

Gunners' eyes crinkle with crowfeet, somehow sad. "You're a very hard man to forget." His tone turns more jovial, hooking his thumb at the Impala prominently gleaming black on a beige yard. "And so is that car."

* * *

A month and a bit after Dad bailed on them for his hunting group, it's the chilly evening of Sams' play, the darkening sky filled by flashing lights for final checks as the guests settle in. 

At least, that's what Dean assumes is happening. 

His oversized jacket forgotten in the front seat, misted windows excused by the cold air, Gunner slides a hand up his side. He hushes encouraging noises as a strong build backs him down horizontally. He lets himself enjoy the weight keeping him pinned, knowing he's protected by the knives wedged under the front seat. 

He clasps at Gunners' neck, the finer curls of hair bristling under his touch as they buck, roll, move together. "Fuck, _fuck_. Mm." He feels panted over his lips and grins hazily upwards, already wanting more. 

He couldn't get this often. When he tried with girls they got confused why he wanted them on top - guys never offered a choice. He'd be more cut up about it, if he didn't love seeing them like Gunner, sweating, struggling to hold himself up on the arms caging either side of his hips. What he'd give for a room alone right now. 

The phone rings once. 

Ice creeps inside the car as all that intense heat drains out of him. He turns his head to the noise, heart rapid. It rings again and he elbows Gunner off, lurching over the seat to scrabble for the phone. If it rang three times and he didn't pick up - 

Breathlessly he answers the call, the third ring just breaking. "Sir?" He clears his wrecked voice, haze fading as he listens for orders. 

"It's headed for the school. Get everyone inside. There are machetes and torches in the trunk." 

"Are you coming too?" He asks into a dead line meaning yes, he would be following the monsters here. He exhales sharply, flipping the phone closed and pressing a knuckle into the tension between his eyes. How the hell is he supposed to round up all the kids and parents - lips press against his jaw and he jerks, roughly shoving back the offender.

“What the hell, man." He says, wiping the spot with a shudder. He doesn’t look at Gunner as he throws his shirt on, checking his reflection with a burst of nerves. A reluctant sigh beside him makes him flickers a look to the flex of muscles. He kept playing this cat-mouse game with the guy, flicking on a flame only to douse it before it could really race into a forest fire. Confused, his heart stutters on the dejection shadowing the kind face he'd come to care for - why did he stop? 

Because the monster was coming, here. And as much as he hates thinking it, Gunner knew the people better than he did. He’d have more luck keeping them in the hall. 

Guiltily he grabs Gunner and kisses with every trick in the damn book, sick knowing the stakes, but when he breaks away all he sees is a starstruck soldier. 

Summing sincerity he asks, “Can you trust me?”

*

Machete tucked in his jacket, he bursts into the booth filled with stagelight switches, Sammy laughing over shared sweets with his friend. He turns around at Dean’s abrupt entrance and it breaks his damn heart to see his brothers’ confusion morph into anger and then awful acceptance, reaching down to get his bag.

“No, Sam - it’s not like that. Dad’s on his way so just, go on with the show. I’ve got a buddy in the hall making sure nobody misses a thing.” The coded words clench Sams’ jaw, because Dad wouldn’t come to their school unless the monster was here. 

“Should I do anything?” Sam asks, tensely, knowing he’d be the last line of defense for his friends if the monster snatched up the hunters.

“Chin up and dazzle them, fighter.” That’s all Dean has time to advise before he’s running down hallways and closing doors - the more they can funnel this thing, the better.

Moonlight through windows makes mountainous shadows out of the lockers, a thin path of light to stalk the halls in, machete drawn. A door bangs. Dean crushes against the wall as he creeps to the corridors’ corner. A slow shuffle starts and he steps lightly, jacket barely brushing brick as he moves.

Quickly twisting around the corner, his blade bears down - meeting another machete with a clash and a grunt. 

"Dad!" He exclaims, checking him for injury. He's got a hell of a scar and he's holding his side. "You okay?"

"You nearly chopped off my damn head." Dad reprimands coldly and yeah, he's fine, shouldering past and making him swallow the apology crawling pitifully up his throat.

"Do we know what it is?"

"Shadestalker." Dean stiffens, assessing the threatening shadows around them. “We need to draw it out." Dad gestures where light, music and laughter seep out from under the large door at the end of the hallway. "What's that?"

"Theatre club."

John snorts derisively. "Of course." 

"They've got loads of lights. Sammys’ got control of the switches, so if we can -" 

"Samuel's in the theatre club?" Dad questions with abject annoyance. Dean defensively licks his lips and adjusts his grip on the machete.

"He likes it." 

Dad looks at him for the first time with a clenched jaw, and he drops his eyes. 

"T-there’s only two hallways leading to the stage,” He stammers out. “I locked all the doors. Only way that shadesucker could get a meal now is by blasting itself inside that lightbox." 

Dad grunts in consideration. "That plan will work if everyone stays in the hall. If one person leaves, it could possess their body and move out of the shadows.” And then it’d head straight for the people controlling the lights, Sammy.

Dean nods readily, relieved his plan hadn’t been dismissed. "Don’t worry, I got a buddy inside, he can keep them in there."

"A hunter?" 

He shifts his weight. "Uh … no." 

Dads’ tone hardens to flint, staring him down as he shrivels. "You told someone."

"No!” He panics, fumbling a lie. “He trusted me when I asked -" 

The slap comes sharp and sudden, sending his head sideways with the force. Skin throbbing under the impact, blood rushing to the surface. He doesn’t dare meet the brimstone brown eyes burning shame into his skin. Blood splatters from his fathers' wound onto the floor, passing silent judgement on his failed soldier of a son.

He fucked up. _No real names, no telling anyone about the monsters._ He hadn’t even hustled as much cash as he could have, which meant Sammy wasn’t safe, because - he suffocates that thought into silence. No way he could think about him now, not under this scrutiny.

Screeching pierces through the air, and he flinches away. It reverbs off metal, padlocks pounding against lockers, a percussion jarring the upbeat songs seeping from the hall. The shadows start expanding, backing them into solitary slivers of moonlight. 

“Take the other corridor.” Dad commands and Dean does just that.

*

Sliding against the wall, the waiting shadows breathe fouly on his face, impatient for him to make a mistake. Too bad for them, that he can’t fucking afford another. The world shifts, the moonlight elongating the shadows until they wrap over Dean’s legs. 

Fingers jolt out of the dark, grappling whatever they can cling onto, pulling harshly behind Dean’s knees so that he’s sliding and grabbing at the wall, trying to stop slipping away into the shadows. He fumbles his machete, twisting it so he can slice away the hold with a screech. Retched red blood covers his clothes, dripping as he darts for the next source of light.

He leans against the column with it’s lone lamp and rapidly inhales, nerves shaking his chest. He’d never forgive himself if this thing got hold of him and made him hurt Sammy. Whistling in air, he sees someone pacing idly between the shadows.

Dean strides over, watching his hesitant smile fade at the sight of blood. “You need to get back in the hall, now.” He commands, watching behind them with concern.

"Did the monster do that?" Gunner asks about his rapidly bruising face and he rolls with the lie. 

"Yeah, it's a nasty piece of work. Unless you want to match, I suggest scramming." He's checking over their shoulders, twisting the blade in his hand.

"I'm waiting for someone." His hearts slows. "Mrs Parish needed to go."

Dean’s head throbs in frustration. "She couldn't hold it?” 

"She's pregnant, dude." Gunner huffs and two civs on the loose is the last thing they need. He exhales, slow and measured, as a howling screech stirs in the dark hallway. Gunner jolts, turning to look over his shoulder. "The hell was that -" 

Dean grabs onto his arm, fixing him with a serious look. "You need to go back." 

Fear, true fear of the dark, swells on Gunners’ face - dropping to where Deans' blood-dried hand wrapped around his forearm. Before he can do anything, he’s being crushed into an urgent kiss. He can’t let himself feel the concern in it, jerking away and scanning the shadows for monsters. Instead he finds a pair of disapproving eyes at the end of the hallway, staggered in blood.

Fuck.

A burst of light from the bathroom door opening jumps them apart, catching a skeletal monstrous hand wisp and disappear where it had been hovering behind Gunners’ back. Alright, he needs to stop panicking and get these people to safety.

"Mrs Parish, hey!" He cranks on the charm, hiding his blade as she squints at him. "Dean." He supplies and she claps in recognition.

"I left my glasses inside, sorry dear. Are you here for the play?" 

"Yep, it’s starting now and everyone’s wondering where you are." Dean confirms, ushering them down the hallway, cracking jokes until they get close. The light and music pounds, but behind them builds a screech - he pushes at Gunner’s back, forcing him and Mrs Parrish inside the door. 

It slams just in time to shroud the whole world in darkness, the Shadestalker catching him in it’s cold arms, crawling it’s sharp skeletal fingers over and into his veins. Pressure builds around his throat, tongue curdling in his mouth, air slipping through his teeth in tense hisses. Creeping through his tendons, his grip on the machete switching ownership.

 _“Delicate.”_ Slides a rasp through his mouth, wrong, hissing. His energy saps away, the creature latching onto his lifesource and greedily suckling, slowing his pulse until he’s a mindless shuffling shell, deep under its' control.

*

Peering down into the hall, Sam spots two figures hurrying back to their seats - that's the guy he'd seen hanging around Dean. His eyes kept flicking to the door, distracted and worried. He'd seen the monster, meaning his brother was in trouble. 

"Sam! Where are you going, we're about to start!" Avery exclaims as he scrambles for the torch inside his backpack. 

"Uh, stage fright."

"We're doing the lights!" Her voice fades as he skids to a stop in the dark hallway. Three bulbs flicker above him, separated by shadows. Switching on his torch, he leaves the dim doorway and uses the bright beam to bring him under the first light. 

Outside the circle of crackling fluorescent, he can't sense anything strange about the shadows. Braver, he makes to move for the second when a crashing sound shocks him. He waits. When he hears it again, he switches off his torch and dives for the door it came from. 

Creeping inside the stage storage room, he hides behind racks of costumes and uses boxes as walls, waiting crouched until he can peer his head out of cover. He frowns, confused to see Dean shuffling around, stumbling, leering forwards unnaturally.

Sam swallows the roil of fear, watching a monster move his brother. 

_Chin up and dazzle them._ Dazzle? Light - light! 

He looks down at his torch, knowing it wouldn't be enough. There had to be something in here, a room filled with old and broken stage equipment. Where did Avery say she helped Mrs Parrish pull the lights from? 

Hissing and snarling as his backdrop, he moves low and slow in the shadows, where the monster shouldn't be able to see him. There's a box of bulbs but it's wedged between others and right now, noise is his enemy. 

He blindly backs up, hitting something and spinning so it doesn't crash to the floor and - oh, perfect. A long pole ending in a high lux lamp, he flicks out the legs and hears the hissing go quiet. It knows he's here. 

No point hiding now, he slams down the lamp and the creature screeches, running for him. He falls in a tangle of wires near the outlet, cables catching his arms as he shoves them out of the way - he jams in the plug, swinging back around as blinding light fills the room. 

He sees Dad, machete already raised. Particles rip off his brothers' body, the creature clinging to him but it can't scramble a hold. Dual screams cut short as Dad slices the machete through the creatures neck, severing it from the body and spraying ichor blood. 

The room collapses into pants, Dean falling forwards to the floor. 

John cleans his deeply dirty machete on a rag. "Alright." He says, chest steadying. "I'll call the hunters and let them know the kill's over. Clean up the blood, boys."

"We don't have any spare clothes on us." Sam reminds as he scrambles out of the cables.

"Just sneak out - or take one of these costumes." John gestures to the hanging racks around them. "Dean won't mind wearing the fairy one will he?" 

His brother forces a laugh, pained and uncomfortable, red blood glinting as his throat works. He waits until John fades into the shadows before crouching down by Deans' side, using his sleeve to scrub the blood off his face. 

"I'm alright, Sammy, I'm fine." Dean wheezes through his teeth, wincing. "God that's a bright light, smart move."

"He looked like he was going to take your head off. I had to try it." Sam admits and sees his face crumple, a second of pain. "What happened?" He asks, helping him up but his brother just shakes his head. 

"Look, hey. The interval's probably over by now, so no slacking. Otherwise that goth girl might have her own machete." Deans' split lip quirks up and so does Sams'.

"Will you come and see some of it?" He asks hopefully. 

"Yeah, after I clean up. Go on, you've got people waiting." Sam brightens, running to the hallway but a glint of light makes him turn back - it's glare from the machete blade, trembling violently in Deans' hand. 

Illuminated, blood dripping off his neck, his brother digs the heel of his hand into his clenched eyes. His shadow shakes under the lone light, looming expansively as he hunches over with a guttural grunt of pain. 

Sam doesn't know what to do, hesitating in the doorway. Is this what his brother never let him see after a hunt? Should he say something? 

_Maybe being fake is what he needs._

* * *

Sam stares down at the open coffin, a peaceful skeleton with its' secrets. "Why wouldn't she tell her kids?" He asks, pouring gasoline over the bones. 

Dean glances to him, thumbing the matches. "Sometimes parents need secrets man, things the kid can't know to protect them."

"Kids. She had three kids, plural." He corrects idly. 

Looking like he'd been caught saying something he shouldn't, Dean hisses a match to life and drops it into the grave. 

* * *

Disposing the last bloody and bleached tissues, tying up the black bag, throwing it into the trash outside - Dean stops as the mounting pressure finally spills over. "Fuck." He whispers into the bins. "Fuck, _fuck_." His knuckles sting, crashing them into metal. 

He shoves himself in the shadows and smokes. He rubs at his face, his hair drying with blood. What the fuck is he gonna do? Dad saw him kissing - he can't even think it. His lighter shakes as it strikes another smoke to life, huffing like a train about to go off the rails, begging to be numb. 

His heads not been screwed on this hunt, how many fucking mistakes did he make? Nearly beheaded his own father, possessed by the monster, told the truth to some _guy_ he'll never see again - and he knows, even listing them out, he was still going to do one more thing. 

Dads' going to send him away and he _can't_ do that to Sammy, not again. What he's about to do though, leaves him no other option. He exhales, rubbing his ring over his lip. 

He'd cleaned up, Dads' call was surely over - but Dean was going to make him _wait_ in that car, so he could keep his promise to Sam. 

Winding the frayed edges of himself together, he pats off his knees and heads back to that switch filled room. 

*

The play is in full swing when he sneaks into the booth, Sam and Avery pointing animatedly to their cues and mocking some songs. He leans an arm on the filing case, not needing to see what his brother does in this stuff to know he's having a good time, for once. 

The other door into the room creaks, Dean defensively drifting his hand to his blade - but it's Gunner. A wilderness in him fades, their eyes meeting. At first, he thinks he'd been looking for _him_ but then his gaze slides to the goth girl. Right, his cousin. He was probably more scared for her up here in the dark, than his sister shining under the lights. 

Then relief pours off him in waves, flooding over to Dean who desperately doesn't look back. Just because he was here, didn't mean anyone was safe. 

When the curtains draw across the stage, he still doesn't know shit about the play, but he breaks out into a grin as Sammy high-fives Avery afterwards like kids are supposed to. Her hands curl into her black-red skirt nervously and Sam suggests she talk to her cousin, currently collecting flowers on the stage. 

Avery bounds out and he sweeps Sam off the floor into an overwhelmingly proud hug. "Look at you! Hunter by day, play prodigy by night." He lets his embarrassed brother go. "Well done, fighter."

"Whatever." Sam grins, glancing to Gunner and then back to him. "I'll go wait in the car." He ducks away from Dean ruffling his hair on the way out. 

The crowd in the hall was starting to dissipate, though he sees Avery hesitantly hug her cousin, close to crying. He should head back to the car, if it hadn't ripped off into the night already. 

He turns to Gunner. "Hey."

"Hey," Greets him back. "That was crazy. What was that thing - I mean, I don't want to _know_. Ever, I don't think." 

Dean curls a smile at that, flecks of blood on his cheek. "Probably for the best." He agrees and watches him push a hand through his hair in disbelief. He shifts on the spot. "Look, Sam and I aren't hanging around, we're leaving tonight."

Gunners' eyes glint with upset. "Following the monsters." Nothing could've happened anyway, and it was a stupid dream to have. He twists his machete-tip into the wall, leaving a notch. "Well… be safe out there, Winchester." 

And damn it, that's _him_. 

This, blood covered liar, is all of him. 

Before he can convince himself not to, he flicks off the overhead so only distant lights leave slivers of outlines around them. He tilts his chin up and Gunner meets him halfway, in a bruising kiss. Concern, loss, fear tangles with fond, lust, care. 

He can't hold him - but hopes his gratitude at having been known, can be felt.

"You, uh." His throat catches, hating goodbyes, whispering words into the kiss he leaves on his cheek. "Have a nice life." 

*

Somberness had already crawled into the car, can tell from frowning faces. He hurries to the passenger side with an excuse about clean up taking longer than expected. 

"Samuel, step outside."

His brother looks warily between them before he slides out, slamming the door. Silence makes him twist his ring over his knuckle, only comforted by Sam kicking pebbles. 

"Did you lose your mind?" Dad starts off softly. "Someone slip you something, head not heal right?" It's thrumming with concern but Dean knows what's going to happen down this road of conversation and braces, staring past the dashboard. 

"No, sir."

"No? Then tell me son," Dad leans in close before he unleashes his tidal anger, a foul wrath wrapping around him. "Why you're telling _civs_ about what we do, letting them so close to Samuel. You got caught with your pants down on a hunt because your fag friend distracted you." 

Deans' eye twitches against the slur, knowing Gunner didn't deserve that - but even that was too much. Dad had a true talent of seeing him when he wanted to be invisible.

"I saw you two in the hallway." 

His heart stops on a fucking dime. 

"He was standing too close to you - can tell a fag from a mile away. Steer clear of them." And the anger was fading from his father and he waits. He waits. Dad rustles around the draw for a map and no way, _no way_ , he was that lucky. 

He sucks in air like a dying man because Dad hadn't seen seconds before when Dean was kissing - he fumbles for the door and says something about a smoke. He makes it behind a tree before he loses his guts, cold night air stinging his warm body, palms scraping bark - shit. 

That was way too close, like a car flashing across the interstate when he's driving forwards, a life altering moment and it missed by a breadth of hair, of time. 

In a life of his fathers' rules, he finally makes his own. 

_No guys._

He swears himself blind right there, relief crushed under the realisation he almost lost Sammy to selfishness. He smokes to cover his stench, staring at his lucky stars, breathing out in resolution. 

When he sees Sammy sitting upfront he nearly laughs but takes the back, where the bad things sit. 

* * *

"You got a nice life here." Dean says, slamming the trunk to the car as Sam makes his goodbyes on the porch. 

Gunner grins, leaning back on the sunny sliding of his house. "You said that to me before you left. I thought it then and I think it now - when a blood covered boy holding a machete tells you to have a nice life, you get one, because you're scared to become him." 

He reaches out his hand and respect flows through them as they shake a goodbye. 

"But, you hope _he_ gets to have a nice life too." 

*

"Hey," Sam taps him awake where he'd fallen asleep in shotgun, driving the last leg to their next town. "It'll just be you and Cas this evening, since Eileen got us tickets to an ASL play."

He blinks the tunnel lights from his vision, watching their wandering trail catch on Sams' smile. Not for the first time, he's proud of his little brother, thankful Eileen was the one guiding him out of the dark - dotting dates and dreams like lanterns. 

"She's feeding the theatre nerd in you, too much." Is all he grumbles as they leave the tunnel, his shadowed fingers tapping his thigh in thought. 

*

The burgundy evening sky sparks with early stars, whispers of wind pushing through tree branches, slowly burning down Deans' cigarette. He's smoking so he doesn't do something stupid, like slip his fingers through Cas'. 

Miracle is nowhere near as restrained, bounding ahead to dig at the ground or chase bugs. 

"The early dog catches the worm." Cas says, turning to him with a proud smile. Missing the mark or not, Dean gives an impressed look. He thinks of chances and hangs his hand, brushing beside each other, walking with no real direction. 

"Cas," He starts and the brightest gaze turns to him. "You uh, plan on trimming that hedge anytime soon?" He asks, skimming his knuckle over the black whiskers growing thick on Cas' face. 

_What do you think, Dean?_ That was what Cas would've said before, unsure and needing guidance. Human adjacent now, all he does is run a hand over the bristles and hums. "It's a sign of aging." He muses softly, an ancient creature content with creaking human bones. "My vessels never got the chance to age."

Dean draws in smoke but can't help the comment, "Well this one is aging like fine wine." Amusement radiates beside him and he rolls his eyes. "Just because I don't drink it, don't mean I can't appreciate it."

"It's nicer than you think." Cas says with an air of someone who was around to see the damn grapes get plucked. 

"Your vessels never age?" He prompts, wanting to hear more. 

"Age, growth, pregnancy. Any bodily function a human has would halt upon an angelic entrance." Cas leans down to throw Miracle a stick. "How an angel viewed a vessel always differed. Raphael saw them as offices, controlling them at a desk. Hannah saw them as boats, guiding them down rivers."

Miracle bounds over and Dean chucks the stick out into the field. "What did you see them as?" 

Cas' tilts his head to the sky, wind buffeting against his tan coat. "Homes."

Dean swallows back a wash of warm words, landing on, "So, everytime you had a vessel, it was a _home invasion_?" His grin widens when he gets elbowed in the side. 

"I wasn't a burglar." Cas grumbles, making him laugh. "I was quite a rude house guest though." Intruding, tracking bloody footprints as he hulked against walls that could not contain him. 

"What were the houses like?" Dean wonders, thinking of the bunker and if an angel would find it comfortable. 

"Structured, orderly, clean. A devout woman in 1901, had a wonderful home. I remember feeling ashamed to mar her finery." Blood splatters against petticoats, rips in bodices. "She felt my doubt, settling in and looking at her painted family portrait. I was stripped from her, returned to Heaven for conditioning."

Dean doesn't dare think of controlled centuries, his hand twitching forwards for comfort. "Are you still squatting in Jimmys' suburban then?" 

"There is no house anymore." Cas admits, whistling for their dog to stick close. "When I returned Jimmy to his Heaven, it dilapidated - destroyed once I became human." Crawling out of the rubble, choking on plaster, confused and bombarded with the whole world without walls. 

"Do you," He tips his head, unsure. He'd grown attached to dark hair and unsettling eyes that could pin him still - but he loved _Cas_. "Do you want to build a new home? Y'know, in there." He taps a finger to a suited chest, receiving a fond look. 

"I'm… decorating." Cas settles on, gesturing his beard and ribs inked in enochian script. 

"We could get you some new duds, right, do an _Emperors' New Clothes_ type of thing." He suggests, scrabbling their key into the motel room door. It's only when he's picking two beers out the fridge in an amused silence he realises the ending of that story. "Not that - well, I mean." Cas laughs as he takes the beer, sending a horrid flush up his neck. "Ah, shut it."

They shrug off their jackets, throwing both onto one bed and reprimanding Miracle for chewing the sleeves. The room fills with the hymn of fridges, lights flickering from glimmers of grace, the clink of bottles and delicate shake of dogtags. 

"Claires' home." He turns to Cas' warm voice. "It was a cramped but colorful plastic playhouse."

"Oh, you're kidding." Dean grins, gleeful as hell to imagine a celestial creature stuffing itself inside a kiddy castle. "Tell me it had a slide." 

"How do you think I left?" His indulgent smile grows as Dean roars in laughter, slapping his leg for his phone. 

"That's - ha! That's brilliant." He chuckles, bringing up his last messages. 

-

**CLAIRE**

_2d ago_

_Call when you and Kaia get home._

_2d ago_

_will do_

_2d ago_

_[CALL DURATION: 46:32]_

_3 min ago_

_Cas says your vessel had a slide when he visited. Adorable._

_1 min ago_

_something like this? [IMAGE]_

-

Attached is a picture of Claire posing by a water slide, laughing together with Kaia, arms around her waist with Jody and Donna talking closely off to the side. 

"Hey, look, the girls finally got down to that water park." He shows Cas across the table, sharing his dopey smile seeing their kid having fun splashing about. "Date with the parents there though? Sucks for them."

"Sam and Eileen went on a date too." Cas says thoughtfully. Yeah, something in the air tonight. They catch eyes and oh, right. They weren't - they were just spending some time alone and sort of flirting, but what made that different from usual? If he _did_ take Cas out on a date, he'd dream up more than a motel evening. They'd see a movie, not one they'd already watched though. No, something new, for both of them. 

Lost in possibilities, his watch-digits flash close to midnight. A shadow falls across the dull orange light slanting from the bathroom and his gaze drifts over Cas leaning against the doorway. 

Folded suit in hands, he remained in boxers and a soft sleep shirt. With the confidence of three beers, he offers, "If you want to shave you can use my kit." Cas looks intrigued, ditching his clothes in his own canvas before unzipping Dean's. He turns the leather bag over curiously, rustling through cans and razors in the dim light. He stops drumming his fingers when Cas holds the razor upside down, knowing the damn idiot is playing him. 

"Smartass." He mutters, hooking a hand under Cas' arm to pull him towards the bathroom. It's not huge but there's space for his angel to curiously peer over his shoulder, as he unpacks the kit. 

"What's this?" Cas asks incredibly serious, crowding Dean against the counter as he points to shaving foam. He looks in the mirror until blue meets green, amused with this bullshit act. Sure, he'd treat Cas like he never read _Humans For Dummies._

"It's shaving foam." He tugs Cas' hand closer so it wraps around the can, whispering, _"But you knew that."_

 _"I don't know what you mean."_ Murmurs against the sensitive shell of his ear, pulling back from where he crushed Dean into the counter. Muttering _dick_ under his breath, a break in the act slips through as Cas grins, rubbing foam into his bristles. 

Razors prepared, he looks up and let's out an exasperated breath. "Is something wrong?" Asks a heavily frowning face with a patchily covered beard. Shaking his head, he steps into Cas' space. 

Generally, he did not like to be known. He didn't like being a book to browse through. But Cas knew him cover to cover, analysed phrases he didn't understand until it made sense, kept pages free of dust. 

It's not the worst thing in the world, to be known by Cas. 

He thinks this, aware he's being beautifully played, swiping white foam over the missed patches. "You," He dips the razor into the water. "Are a lucky son of a bitch. Anyone else pulling this schtick would be out on their ass."

"I am, lucky." 

Gone is the act, genuine affection pouring through Cas’ words - that shuts him right up. Only his angel could find Dean holding a razor to his throat, and think himself lucky to have a personal barber. 

He shifts closer, working gently with the blade, until his arm rests across Cas' shoulders and his waist feels feather-light fingertips. 

Without breaking their hold, Dean whips a cloth off the counter, wiping foam away to reveal a much softer face. "Brand new." He murmurs, passing the cloth behind Cas' neck so his hands are free to feel his masterpiece. 

"What do you think?" Cas asks. 

"I think you're a dick for making me do all that, when you knew how." Dean starts, delighted to see a knowing smile rise on the face caught between his hands. “And,” Gently he presses his lips to a freshly shaven cheek. “I think I love you anyway."

He catches Cas the moment he falls, hands clutching his sides and exhaling shakily over his neck, holding his hunter how he longed to - how the hunter yearned to be held, worthy, wanted, loved. 

It's not bad to be known, not bad at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, thank you so much for reading! this one was much longer than the last, because i wanted to explore sams' displacement as a kid, as well as dean being his parental unit :) i hope this was alright? please tell me what you thought below!
> 
> not sure when the next update will be, but have a happy new year and stay safe all <3


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